Tales from Astrographic Oceans
by His Excellency TeenageAngst
Summary: Archon Irons is missing, the Necron threat is averted, and for the moment all seems to be quiet. That is until those wacky, lovable, pointy-eared clowns decide to make everyone's worst nightmares come true. Fanning the flames of war and demanding the utmost sacrifice of both Eldar and human alike, the Harlequins are truly dedicated to the long gag. Jump to part 4 for waggle.
1. Kickstart My Heart

The spotlights of the Cult of Claws arena glared overhead, radiating down from the mind-bending geometry of Commorragh. Kylendris sat on his jetbike, watching the carnage inside from behind steel bars. The remaining warriors of the now defunct Kabal of the Iron Maiden were fighting a desperate battle against a ravenous Kroot hunting pack, their agony slaking the bloodthirst of the ravenous audience in the spires and awnings above. Hunkered down behind the sunken debris of their Raider, the surviving warriors hopelessly fought the alien beasts with knives and pistols, their rifles having long since run out of ammo. As a particularly large Kroot tore an Eldar's arm from its socket the floor was sprayed with fresh blood, adding yet another layer to the caked on mess that coated the arena floor from the night's previous victims. High above, screaming Eldar drank their fill of the pain being served and howled for more. Kylendris swallowed hard as the severed arm was tossed from the jowls of the Kroot and rolled towards him.

A chill ran down the pilot's spine and he broke his attention away, glancing down the short corridor he'd been lead through. This was a one way trip, a locked cattle chute where his only way out was into the arena. He could make a break for the skies, but chances were they had a remote shutdown on his Reaver jetbike. Anxiously he caressed the small syringe on his belt. Along with a vehicle and gladiator weapons, he was furnished with a combat drug for the audience's amusement, though for all he knew it contained nothing but poison. The entire purpose of this spectacle after all was to kill the entire Kabal off in as grizzly a manner as possible. Such was the revenge of Lady Arataire upon learning who her true killer was.

A sharp cry snapped his head forward as a warrior had his leg sawn clean off by a Kroot knife. Taking this opportunity, the entire hunting pack lunged upon the remaining Iron Maiden warriors, slashing their armor with fierce daggers and snapping necks in their maws. Kylendris couldn't help but watch, horrified as the Eldar he once called his allies were reduced to pulp and meat for sport. The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles as the dimensional scene above shifted to the fully recovered Lady Arataire and her gaudy entourage. Archon Salendrid of the Gypsy Road Kabal sat to her right, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment while dining on a choice selection of meats that bore an eerie resemblance to the previous night's victims. To her left Kylendris recognized her Syren, Chariath. She stood statuesque by her mistress as she analyzed the scene below, her tailored lightning claws still on her belt. All around them were Wracks of the Didactic Cave, Incubi guards, and the elite Bloodbrides of the Cult.

Lady Arataire stepped forward and raised her glaive slightly as her honored guests offered a polite applause. "Thank you, my friends, for joining me this night." The stands boomed with elation but were quickly silenced with a bat of her porcelain hand. "It is my honor to present the destruction of this filthy Kabal and the vermin responsible for my injuries. Let me also thank Salendrid for his continued generosity and patronage." The audience thundered with applause once again. "Also the impeccable craftsmanship of the Coven of the Didactic Cave for both their flawless work during my recovery and their continued arena contributions." She stepped forward, the animal skin cloak around her neck fluttering in a light breeze. Holding her archite glaive high, she commanded, "Now, bring out the next victim!"

A loud clang made Kylendris jump as the gate before him shot into the ceiling. Gently rolling on the throttle, he glided forward, his jetbike gradually coming into the spotlights. The roar of the crowd gave way to laughter as the lights whirled around him, illuminating the enormous arena floor. He caught the snide jeers and comments in the air, emphasized by the distorted reality of the arena's geometry. A trueborn being humbled like this was cause enough for the audience to heckle, but on top of that, Kylendris was not exactly an imposing Eldar. Indignant, he revved his jetbike, a flare popping out the main thruster as the engine whined. Betrayal was par for the course in Commorragh as he well knew, but after the Cult of Claws turned on his Kabal and drove out Archon Irons, he took it personally. Maybe it was his upbringing. Maybe it was how Chariath had always gone on about honor, only to betray them when victory was just within their grasp. Or maybe it was his fondness for Archon Irons. She was, after all, the only Eldar in the entire city who bothered to put up with his eccentricities. Whatever the case, a fire burned in his chest, consuming him from the inside out. He would show these traitors what it meant to be an Iron Maiden.

All at once the tone shifted and the crowd booed as the gate across the arena opened. From within cruised three clunky, black jetbikes. They were decorated with red trim and skull motifs, and each vehicle was intricately detailed with flittering paper, affixed by red seals to the machines. They were piloted by Space Marines who themselves were large, heavily armored creatures, clad head to foot in power armor as dark and soulless as the jeering audience above. Kylendris had fought these creatures before and knew only too well their tenacity and strength.

Succubus Arataire slammed her glaive into the podium in commencement but the Space Marines didn't seem to bother waiting. As soon as they spotted Kylendris, they cranked their bulky jetbikes into high gear, tearing across the arena towards their quarry. He could hear them shouting over the growl of their engines in the mon-keigh tongue, though he wasn't paying enough attention to understand. Instinctively he jammed the throttle and took off, the Reaver bike's engine thrumming as he ripped through the air. The wall of the arena came up on him and he banked hard, gaining momentum as he leaned sideways, the bladevanes on the side of his bike screaming as they cut the air. To add to the slaughter, the arena walls began to jut blades and spikes in front of him. Kylendris jinked hard, pulling the bike up into the air hundreds of feet above the ground before going full throttle into a nose-dive.

The Space Marines below widened their formation and prepared to intercept him, their front jets lifting their wheels. As he neared, all three opened up with a torrent of bolter fire. Kylendris jerked the handlebars left and right, desperately trying to avoid the incoming shells as he careened towards the captured humans. One of the bolts struck his bladevane, knocking him off course and sending the Reaver bike into a spiral. Panicking, he pulled up on the handlebars for all he was worth, the stabilizers jamming the bike straight upwards. Gathering momentum once again, Kylendris aimed his bike down towards the Marines, his broken bladevane dragging through the air, causing the bike to pull hard to the right.

"Battle Brothers, end this foolish xeno!" the Space Marine commander yelled, pointing at Kylendris as he barreled towards them.

"Let him come!" another replied, "If he wishes to taste the Emperor's sword then he shall!"

The wind resonated inside his helmet and Kylendris lowered his head, his thumb caressing a button on his handlebars as he braced himself against the footpegs. The Space Marines neared and he released the throttle, yanking the front of the bike up with all his strength. Gunning the engine once again, the thrusters spat fire, giving him a burst of lateral momentum and catapulting him forward. He mashed the button as the bike zoomed flat out over their heads, missing the mon-keigh warriors by mere inches. One of them lashed at him with his chainsword, prying the last of the damaged bladevane off and sending him hurtling away. Yet after a few seconds, the clatter of timed explosions rumbled the arena floor beneath.

Reining his bike in, Kylendris slowed down to watch his adversaries. One of the Space Marines was blown to pieces, the caltrops having rent his armor to shards, while the other two still held onto their bikes. The controls on the Reaver fought him with every move and it took all of Kylendris' skill just to keep flying in a straight line. He glanced over his shoulder, the mon-keigh were closing in, their cumbersome steeds howling as the revs climbed. He saw one of them with a sword raised, angrily shouting his battlecry for vengeance. Kylendris tried to accelerate but even the slightest twitch of the throttle pulled his bike hard to the right. It seemed speed was no longer on his side.

Slowing down, he whirled his bike around hard as the machine buckled on its injured side. With the Space Marines baring down on him he opened fire with his under-slung splinter rifles. Glass shards pelted the human warriors, most of which bounced harmlessly off their incredibly thick armor. One lucky shot pierced an elbow joint, causing the rider's arm to slough off in the virulent poison.

If the Space Marine noticed he gave no sign. Undeterred by his overwatch, the bikers surrounded Kylendris, slamming into him with their own jetbikes. He mashed his throttle as they came, sending the Reaver into a hurtling arc, its left bladevane catching the front forks of one of the human jetbikes. Machines and riders were sent spiraling away across the arena as Kylendris found himself in a dizzying ascent, his Reaver swirling towards the upper parts of the arena in a clumsy hit and run. Pounding the throttle off and on, he eased his decent from a death spiral to a bumpy glide. The human he'd flung in the air with him however didn't seem as lucky. Glancing down, he saw the mon-keigh jetbike was too heavy and underpowered to survive a drop like that, even if its pilot could. The human warrior dragged himself from under his own damaged craft, a bolter clutched in his ceramite gauntlet, still ready for combat in spite of the dramatic fall.

 _Do these mon-keigh ever give up!?_ Kylendris wondered as the Space Marine lined up a shot. The human opened fire as he tried to jink away but his controls locked up. The strain of flinging the mon-keigh jetbike into the air broke his steering mechanism and the Reaver was left hurtling towards the foe. Kylendris' arms strained against the handlebars as the metal clicked uselessly. A bolter shell struck the front of the bike, tearing the splinter rifle from underneath and creating a plume of poison behind him. Unable to stop his Reaver and with his weapons destroyed, Kylendris yanked the nose upward and pressed the button on the handlebars. Caltrops spilled from the rear of the bike and he let go, rolling head over heels against the hard arena floor as his Reaver slammed into the Space Marine. A moment later the explosion blasted him backwards, leaving nothing but a charred and twisted husk of ceramite armor where the human once stood.

"Taste the Emperor's wrath!"

Kylendris looked up, still prone from where the explosion had thrown him. The last Space Marine was barreling towards him, his jetbike screeching at full throttle. He had just enough time to roll out of the way as a chainsword gashed the floor where he laid, taking a solid chunk out of the bloody, rocky ground. Kylendris hurried to his feet, drew his pistol, and reached for the syringe on his belt. It was a gamble, he'd never used combat drugs before and he had no idea what was in it. Still, as the mon-keigh rider wheeled his jetbike around for another pass, he didn't see much of a choice. Jamming his neck with the device, he heard a loud click. The mechanism released its dose like a bullet and at once Kylendris could feel adrenaline surge through him. Time seemed to slow down and his body shuddered with energy as his nerves bristled beneath his skin.

The Space Marine charged forward with an augmented cry, weapons blazing, but Kylendris ran headlong to meet the foe. The terrain jutted up a bit, sending the jetbike's shots high and wide as the human closed the distance. Kylendris fired back as he ran, his pistol repeating as quickly as he could pull the trigger. He gripped the knife at his belt and braced himself as the jetbike roared by him, mon-keigh's chainsword lashing his chest wide open. In spite of his grievous wounds the pain didn't even register. Wrapping his arm around the Space Marine's weapon hand, the small pilot drew his blade and sliced at the open elbow joint in one deft gesture, causing the human to veer off course and fall from his mount as the toxins dissolved his flesh. Blood ran from the wound like water and the chainsword fell from the Space Marine's grasp, only to be picked up with the other hand. Stalking the small pilot again, the human's determination radiated with every pounding step.

"Your death shall be but the first of many, xeno filth," the Space Marine uttered. "My brethren will purge this realm of your pestilence."

Kylendris fanned his pistol into the approaching human until the poison chamber was bled dry. His hands were shaking from the drug and every shot either missed or bounced harmlessly off the mon-keigh's armor plates. Tossing his empty gun away, he gripped his wychblade, anticipating the agony to come. The bloodlust that surged through Commorragh didn't affect him as strongly as the other Eldar, but here, in this arena, with the crowd baying above him and the drugs pounding in his veins, with the inky figure of a looming Space Marine three times his size ready to tear him asunder bearing down on him, he felt it. The terror of his own death staring him in the face, the desperate need to kill, and the basic, murderous instinct he'd tried to fend off all these years finally took hold.

He cried out and in a flash was upon the wounded mon-keigh, lashing at its armor with his poisoned blade. The sluggish human swung his chainsword, parrying and chopping the diminutive Eldar with one hand, but he couldn't land a solid blow against such an agile opponent. Kylendris felt the human's sword knick and cut through his pilot's suit as he desperately sought an opening, paying such trivial wounds no mind. He stabbed between plates and cut against wires, plunging his dagger wherever he thought a weakness might be hiding, but the Space Marine stood strong, slamming him to the ground with his enormous fist.

Kylendris was stunned for a brief moment, then scrambled forward and swung his blade around the mon-keigh's armored legs. Though they were as thick as tree trunks, the dagger edge caught the soft joint behind the knee and sunk into the human's flesh. The Space Marine lashed at him, breaking his arm and grinding more of his torn body between the blades of his chainsword, but it was too late. In seconds the creature's leg dissolved, causing him to collapse with a dull thud as his armored carapace hit the ground. Clamoring atop the flailing beast, Kylendris plunged his knife into the neck gap beneath the helmet. The mon-keigh's lashing stopped with a gurgled curse and the pilot found himself sitting on a bloody corpse.

Exonerating cheers and spiteful boos rolled across the arena in equal measure as the audience was torn between surprise at his unlikely triumph and their desire to see his remains strung between the human jetbikes and paraded around like a trophy. His body mangled and the elation of battle drifting from him, Kylendris could just about pry himself off the human corpse as Lady Arataire stepped forward on her pedestal to address him. He saw Chariath catch hear wrist and she stopped, her expression flashing curiosity. The Syren whispered to her as the Succubus's head lifted. Her eyes narrowed in amusement, the faintest smile creasing its way across her face as she moved forward into the spotlight.

"Kylendris, you are the first of your Kabal to survive my challenge tonight," she said, her voice carrying over the roaring crowd. "It would be unfitting not to reward that exceptional performance, especially considering it was delivered by such a… _slight_ gladiator."

The spectators burst into hysterics as Lady Arataire grinned, her fanged teeth sharpened to needle points as if to better resemble the beasts whose hides she wore. Kylendris felt the heat rise in his face but said nothing, his limbs trembling from the pain and drugs still coursing through him.

Once the insult had run its course, the Succubus raised her hand for silence. "Now then, I shall give you a choice of two fates." She gestured towards an open gate at the far end of the arena, "Leave here, and enjoy the same exile as your foolish Archon Irons." She lowered her hand to the podium floor, "Or stay, and pledge your service to my Cult of Claws."

The audience belligerently shouted their suggestions until their voices swelled into a deafening billow of vile insults. Kylendris looked up at Lady Arataire, his helmet concealing the confused expression firmly etched in his face. "You would have me join you?"

"You have impressed my Syren, pilot, a task not easily done" she replied, turning slightly to Chariath. "So much so she requested you personally for her retinue. It would be rude of me to deny such a simple desire after her magnificent display of loyalty during my absence."

Chariath bowed to one knee, "You honor me, mistress."

Lady Arataire nodded lightly and the Syren rose to her feet once more, "So which do you desire?"

Kylendris glared at Chariath from under his helmet. Why would she request him of all people? He was the most loyal of all the Iron Maidens to his Archon. After all, it was he that came up with the rescue plan that ended in Lady Arataire's death in the first place. Kylendris could only imagine the horrors involved in being under her employ. Being flayed by her lightning claws, or hung on hooks like a decoration in her private chambers, or worse, given to Glaucon and his brethren of the Didactic Cave for experiments. Still, what other option did he have? With no other Kabal willing to tolerate his fickle desires, he would have to either give up his lifestyle or leave Commorragh. And where would he go? Off to blindly look for Lady Irons? To wander the webway alone in search of the Harlequins? To return to… no, no he had to stay.

Muscles now rigid from injury, overuse, and the raging adrenalight, Kylendris lowered himself to one wobbly knee, "I pledge myself… to the Cult of Claws, and her grace, Lady Arataire."

The audience sneered and heckled the small pilot as he bowed his head, the mirrored surface of his helmet brushing his broken arm and sending a twinge of pain down his back. Lady Arataire lifted her chin slightly, signaling for him to rise as a doorway beneath the towering spire that held her podium lifted. Carefully he stood up and entered the dark corridor as the gates behind him opened, unleashing the next pair of victims into the arena to tear each other apart. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was the crunching sound of meat as a Talos Pain Engine gorged itself on a Vespid swarm.

Wyches lined the corridor, each brandishing their own version of the Cult's signature weaponry; hydra gauntlets. Some had exotic animal fur imprinted into their flesh, others bore the spines and fangs of fearsome creatures, grafted by skilled Haemonculi. Kylendris felt their patronizing attention as he pressed his way through, the Wyches shoving him forward, making a shallow cut or groping him where they could. They knew better than to seriously damage the Syren's new plaything, but such fresh meat was intoxicating to the seasoned gladiatrixes. His wounds still bleeding freely, the pilot was pulled by his new cohorts to a holding cell.

It was dark, the only light coming from a glowing red console beside a metal table. An Eldar stood inside, his metal claw and grizzly mask familiar to Kylendris, but there was something else. Protruding from the Wrack's shoulders was a third arm, as clean and developed as his other two. The Covenite looked up from the console, "Ah, Kylendris. Good to see you again."

"Glaucon," Kylendris groaned, pulling himself away from his Wych escort, "What are you doing here?"

"The same as ever, experimenting," he replied nonchalantly. "The mon-keigh specimens I recovered during our last expedition together are proving extraordinarily fruitful in the arenas, so Master Meliankris asked that I continue my work with them here."

The pilot held his broken arm, its sinew barely holding together, "And now I take it you are going to experiment on me."

"Do not speak such foolishness, Kylendris," he replied, gesturing to the table with his third arm. "I am here for the benefit of the Cult of Claws. It would be suicide to tamper with Syren Chariath's new toy." The Wrack let out a huff of amusement, "Speaking of which, congratulations on surviving the arena. You are the first of your Kabal, you know."

"No, but I guessed as much," Kylendris said, stepping towards the metal slab.

"I have no doubt that beautiful Talos will be along any minute once it has finished consuming whatever unfortunate the other Kabals brought for it to fight." The Wrack sighed, "It is such a lovely machine."

"Archon Irons seemed to think so," he replied glumly while taking a seat.

"Oh come now, Kylendris, this is a stroke of luck for you," the Wrack said, sticking the pilot with a dripping syringe. "You are under the employ of a rising star; the Cult of Claws is en-vogue with the finest Kabals in Corespur, the Gypsy Road of course among them."

Kylendris winced as he felt the cool medicine slither through his veins, "You know I am no beggar when it comes to my choice of Kabals, Glaucon. I am a trueborn, and a wealthy one."

"Which invites the question," he said, taking a step towards the console, "Of all the organizations of Commorragh, why the Iron Maidens?"

The pilot sighed, "I have my reasons. Suffice to say, I will never find another home quite like it."

A hearty laugh hissed through the thin cut openings on the Wrack's mask, "Oh Kylendris, your melodrama never grows old!" He inserted a few tubes into the syringe connected to the pilot's arm and checked the readout on the console, "I am sure you will enjoy your stay with the Cult of Claws."

"Provided they do not betray me again."

Glaucon stopped what he was doing and looked up, the red glow of the controls reflecting off his mask, "Chariath never betrayed you or the Iron Maidens, Kylendris."

The pilot cocked his head, "Then why did the Cult of Claws forfeit their attack the moment Salendrid was in their grasp?"

"Because while I was busy working with the mon-keigh, I was also arranging for my master to reanimate Lady Arataire," Glaucon replied, his tone low. "Then during the attack, Archon Salendrid and I revealed this to the Syren personally."

"You… what?"

"I knew Syren Chariath would never do anything that might jeopardize her Lady's return." The Wrack leaned over a bit, his mask gleaming in the weak light, "And I do not take kindly to being kidnapped by upstart half-borns."

He pulled the syringe from Kylendris' arm, the wound healing almost instantly around where the needle entered. The pilot looked at his arm, it wasn't as bloody but he still couldn't move it. He said nothing, as the Wrack returned his attention to the console, busily scanning the readings his sensors took of his blood.

"Your physical trauma is no longer life threatening. Once the adrenalite wears off your body should begin to recover," he said, not looking up. "In the meantime, I suggest you do all you can to learn the ways of the Cult of Claws. The Wyches can be quite particular in how they present themselves and the last thing you want is to upset your new mistress."

Kylendris rubbed his arm, it was already beginning to tingle as the nerves reconnected, "I suppose it would be too much to ask if they ever dabbled with the Harlequins during their performances."

The Wrack's metal claw snapped at Kylendris' wrist, tearing his checkered cuff away and holding it up, "Unlikely." Glaucon powered down the console, its light fading as the room sank into complete blankness. As Kylendris' eyes adjusted to the darkness, the door opened and the Wrack stepped through, the silhouette of his third arm making him appear all the more surreal. "As I said, Kylendris, you should learn to make yourself at home." He held up the scrap of cloth wedged between his steel fingers, "After all, it is likely the last one you will ever know."


	2. Owner of a Lonely Heart

The winding halls of Craftworld Ulthwé slid along and between each other, the nautilus spires rising in the distance to a single, breathless point above the world ship's hull. Gazing through the portcullis, Yes'ruch could see the crystal solar sails gliding the ship along the endless void, circling gradually the Eye of Terror. The daemonic light of the Warp twisted some of its innumerable sinews around the vessel, caressing it as if the fingers of She Who Thirsts herself. It struck a small, deep chord of terror in her whenever she witnessed it, and yet she could not deny its beauty.

Tearing herself away from the window, Yes'ruch returned to her chore. The carriageway in which she toiled was lined as far as the eye could see with ornate sculptures, the works of hundreds of Eldar embracing the Path of the Artist. Most were made of wraithbone, its properties allowing for delicate reflections of the sculptor's unique psyche. Some, however, were carved of marbled stone, living wood, growing crystal formations, gemstones, or precious metals. These required careful pruning and diligent polishing as they were susceptible to tarnish or wild growth.

With a rag in one hand and cleansing spray in the other, Yes'ruch set about wiping the silver bust of a noble Eldar patron. While no Path was technically considered to be above that of any other, some held certain reputations or stigmas. The Path of Service was no different. While its proponents claimed it offered peace and a strong sense of purpose, all knew it was too often the catch-all of Eldar who had little motivation or who were still searching for their talents. For Yes'ruch however, it was a haven from the storm that raged inside her mind. Her centuries spent on the Path of the Seer had not been kind to her, and though her colleagues urged her to stay, she felt her tenuous grip on reality fading with every scrying. Even now, with years of distance behind her, the call of the Seer's Path still tugged at the corner of her mind. Occasionally even visions came, now shadows of previous meditations.

Filling the rag with the cleanser, she wiped away the dust from the carved face. The gleaming metal bore her reflection, her face bulging on the firm cheekbones of whatever man this bust was in honor of. Yes'ruch cared not for the petty exaltations her fellows clamored for. She longed only for the calm her toil brought. It was a mindless, repetitive task. Wipe the dirt away, polish to a shine, and do it all again. The outcome was known, expected, and always beautiful. This catharsis drove the visions away, and in their place left only the tranquil quiet of an evening alone, a time to reflect.

It had been years since she left the _Se'laman Thesria_ and returned home along with most of the other Black Guardians. The Warlock Emerseth, enlightened to the dangers present in the solar system, spent this time desperately petitioning the higher Seer Councils to grant him additional warships but his pleas fell on deaf ears. In the meantime the ship remained, observing from a high solar orbit outside the planetary system lest the mon-keigh inhabitants attempt to engage them. It was a position that afforded the Eldar ample warning and an easy getaway. With the issue currently in a stalemate, most of the Black Guardians were dismissed. And so, relieved of her duty for the time being, Yes'ruch returned to her usual routine of caring for the grounds.

Metal was polished, branches were pruned, and before long the ache in her legs told her the day was nearly through. Yes'ruch looked down at her clothes. Her yellow custodial garments were stained head to foot with polish, tree sap, and glimmering flecks of crystal. She smiled, unlike most of her kin she had something to show for a long day's work. Looking back along the pathway she saw the immaculate faces and figures, each as fresh and bright as the day they were hewn. Satisfied, she slung her cleaning rag over her shoulder and walked towards the dormitories.

As she exited the carriageway tunnel, the ceiling opened up into a massive dome. Airborne vehicles of all sorts glided noiselessly overhead while Eldar strolled about on raised paths and sprawling fields, each an artificial creation of the Bonesingers. Walking along the low roads she encountered several passersby, their more elaborate clothes signifying their current Path. Each in turn smirked or whispered behind her back, just loud enough that she might catch what was being said without making it obvious.

" _That one certainly had a long day."_

" _I wonder if she can smell herself?"_

" _Imagine if her mother saw her now."_

The snide comments rolled off her back like stinging rain. Yes'ruch had seen and been more in her life than all of them together and she knew it. Nevertheless, the attitude her kind held towards her chosen Path left a foul taste in her mouth. She had chosen the Path of Service originally in hopes of connecting with people, by humbling herself and serving their most basic needs. The Path of the Seer tended to distance its followers from others, but in her case it was like a lead curtain. Friends, lovers, mentors, almost everyone she'd grown close to fell away as she delved ever deeper into what her runes had to teach her. Now she hoped to rekindle at least some of what was lost. Coming to an elevator platform, Yes'ruch dipped her head slightly. Those days were behind her now, she needed to move on.

Glancing at the conduit to its side, she considered reaching out to an old friend. How many years had it been since she last spoke to Kaira? Not since Sallis died, and that was… she furrowed her brow, unable to remember. Wincing with shame, Yes'ruch impulsively extended her hand, her soul momentarily connecting with the Infinity Circuit that ran through the Craftworld. Kaira was resting at home, her spirit as vibrant as ever yet somehow changed. As the need for social contact began to give way to embarrassment, Yes'ruch imprinted a message for her then quickly pulled away.

She stepped aboard the elevator as it glided upwards, taking her towards her residence. Changing Paths sometimes meant changing quarters. As one explored their talents fully, it often came with higher status, more patrons, and of course more desirable living space. Few Eldar would willingly step away from a home on the mezzanine overlooking the rapturous wildscapes of Ulthwé, but in walking her new Path, Yes'ruch also decided to live as she worked in hopes of better absorbing the social exposure she thirsted for. As the elevator came to a halt she stepped onto the narrow walkway, each side buttressed with tightly packed dormitories rising above a throng of Eldar workers. Moving between them, she could smell their bodies and the sweat of a day's labor hot on every unwashed neck. Most were on their way home as well, while some stopped to share drinks and jokes with friends at a few of the local establishments.

Meandering through the crowd, Yes'ruch found the street leading to her home. Hopefully, she thought, she would be able to do a little carousing herself this evening. The people thinned as she left the main thoroughfare, their noise drifting to background static as she approached her dormitory. It was a modest dwelling with subtle runes outlining the thin resin door. Although quaint by Eldar standards, it more than suited her needs. Touching it briefly, the door rose into the ceiling and she walked inside. As it glided shut behind her, scenes began glowing from the walls, illuminating everything in a soft evening sunset as though she had windows looking directly out over the Craftworld's major dome. Tossing her filthy rag and chemicals aside, she stepped into her washroom.

The walls radiated a cool aqua and white, calming and relaxing. She undid her belt and turned to the wall, staring at it intently. A small portion of the wall's surface faded to a mirror sheen as she eyed herself over. Pulling a band from her hair, a wave of ebon flowed from the nape of her neck down her back. Yes'ruch ran her fingers through locks matted and clumped with sweat. This was the one part of her occupation she did not enjoy; the ravaging effects of physical labor upon the body. Rolling her shoulders, she heard a crack in her spine as she stood up straight, having been bent over for hours at a time polishing marble.

She ran a finger down her shirt and the fabric pulled away, instantly releasing itself from her body. She did the same with her pants and tossed them both into a box resting in the corner of the room. With a wave of her hand water flowed from the ceiling, the warm drizzle absorbed between cracks in the floor's mosaic tile. Yes'ruch raised her head into the welcoming rain as the steam began to lift, letting the water cascade over her naked body. Taking a deep breath, she wondered if Kaira would accept her invitation for drinks, or if she would even deign to hear her message. The two did not part on good terms when last they met and Yes'ruch knew her new Path did not sit well with her friend. Or was it former friend?

She reached her hand out and the ceiling dripped a small bit of gel into the palm of her hand. Yes'ruch ran it through her hair, rubbing vigorously as her long black stands were coated with thick lather. Pulling the coil of hair from her back, she caressed it between her fingers, petting it softly as it clung to her skin. The memories were stirring and she recalled fondly the evenings she spent with Kaira, bathing in the moonlight on the mezzanine of the dome, their bodies as close as their spirits as they embraced in the cool spring water. Yes'ruch stroked her hair, almost able to feel those gentle fingers running down her leg or along the side of her breast as she would drink in the affection of her dearest friend. Shaking her head, she pulled herself back to the moment. That was a long time ago, she thought. For all she knew, Kaira was an entirely different person now. Perhaps asking to see her again was a mistake. Filling her hand with lather once more, Yes'ruch began washing her body, the warm water now offering little comfort from the cold realization that ran through her bones. Things would never be as they were.

With a thought the water ceased, the floor absorbing the last of it, leaving the room hot and steamy. Yes'ruch grabbed a towel and began drying her hair with one hand as she pulled her refreshed work clothing from the box in the corner. Stepping into the adjoining room she laid them on a nearby chair then paused for a moment. There was a light flashing on the conduit by her door. Continuing to dry herself, Yes'ruch laid a finger on the panel and felt the presence of another Eldar in her mind.

" _I shall join you this evening. Meet me by the Shrine of the Sun Blade."_

Yes'ruch recoiled, her hand twitching. The Sun Blade Shrine? That was one of the few refuges of the Dire Avengers on Ulthwé. Kaira walked the Path of the Healer, and before that the Poet, never that of the Warrior. In fact, Yes'ruch could not even remember a time when she was called to take up arms in the Black Guardians. She was always such a fragile and gentle soul, how could she be called by the song of Khaine? Still, at least she was willing to meet. Yes'ruch had no doubt her friend would be very different from the last time they met, especially if she was enlisted with the Dire Avengers.

Dropping her towel to the floor, she quickly rifled through her clothing for something more acceptable than a work uniform. After several minutes of matching and pairing she settled on a dress of dark crimson and copper trim. The cloth cinched around her waist, accentuating her hips and bust without being revealing, yet still letting her long legs show through. The copper ran along the side of her collar and around her figure, contrasting her black hair and turquoise eyes. Together with black boots and gloves, she looked every bit the Ulthwé socialite, inviting yet dark as their fashions tended to run. As the last earring was applied and the final braid woven into her luscious hair, Yes'ruch walked outside, the lights in her home fading out.

The roads were much quieter now, with most Eldar having gone home for the evening. The Sun Blade Shrine was clear across on the other side of the dome, so Yes'ruch approached a conduit and hailed a public vehicle. No sooner had her mind touched the Infinity Circuit than the Craftworld dispatched a gleaming aircar, its grav-engines almost completely silent. An alloy gullwing door rose and she took a seat, the inside offering a grand view of the architecture of Ulthwé below. Swiftly the aircar cut through the sky, leading her straight towards the block the Shrine was located in. Looking out the transparent resin, Yes'ruch could see the Craftworld's nightlife in full swing. Thousands of Eldar drank and danced in public houses and outdoor parties. She caught the unveiling of yet another statue by a handsome artist to the clattering applause of impressed guests. Silently she wondered if she would have to clean it in the future.

The aircar sunk to the ground and opened its door once more, allowing Yes'ruch to step out onto the raised carriageway. On either side of the bustling road were lines of libraries, theaters, cafés, bodegas, and shops of all sorts, furnished with the works of numerous Eldar on the Path of the Artisan. Amid them all, like a crowning jewel, was the Shrine of the Sun Blade. It rose in a spire above the walkways and shops, taking up a full city block at its base and tapering until at last coming to a single golden peak, topped with a statue of Asuryan. Although Ulthwé boasted fewer Aspect Warriors than most Craftworlds, you would never have known it from the crowd gathered here. Hundreds of Dire Avengers roamed the streets, their Path emblazoned on their clothes or carried in their mannerisms. Yes'ruch walked towards one of the outdoor cafés and took a seat upon a high-legged chair, observing the pedestrians while scanning for Kaira.

A few moments passed and she ordered a drink, but before long she felt a familiar presence. Looking up, Yes'ruch saw her friend strolling through the crowd, her blonde hair waving in the breeze as others passed by. Catching her eye, Kaira stepped forward, wearing the insignia of the Sun Blades on her lapel. Yes'ruch almost flinched, she had changed so much! Gone were her kind, youthful features, replaced instead with the cool and patient stare of a trained warrior. Her blue eyes, once a source of warmth and full of life, were now icy and analyzing. Her face still looked young, but from her shortened hair to her stiffened jaw, everything about her seemed different.

"Yes'ruch, how does this evening find you?" she said plainly, pulling a chair up.

"Kaira, it is good to see you again," she replied, unsure if this was even the right Kaira.

"I heard rumors of what occurred on the mon-keigh moon," Kaira said, waving a waiter over. "I am pleased to find you returned unharmed. It is a shame not everyone could be saved."

Just as before, and every time she attempted to socialize, a thousand possible responses rushed through Yes'ruch's mind as to what she might say regarding those particularly frustrating circumstances. However, for brevity's sake, she simply said, "Yes… it was a terrible loss."

"A loss you had no small part in," Kaira added. She handed her menu to the waiter, not looking her "friend" in the eye.

Grimacing at the painful accusation, Yes'ruch remained quiet for a while, unsure of what to say. Kaira merely continued to stare, her eyes burrowing into her as she patiently waited for an explanation. Realizing she had to offer one, Yes'ruch said, "I assure you, Kaira, I did everything I could—"

"Undermining Palmarias' plan, endangering a dozen Eldar lives, consorting with the mon-keigh?" Kaira steepled her fingers as she stared her down, "Yes, I would say you did everything you could, if your goal was chasing your own deluded visions at the expense of others."

Yes'ruch could not respond, this was a conversation a long time coming. Their drinks arrived but she did not think her throat would unclench enough for her to ever swallow it.

Kaira sipped her beverage, a smooth fruit juice blended with sour liquor, "Yes'ruch, I do not mean to sound cruel, but your constant denial of your true Path is only going to continue to harm yourself and those around you. You of all people should know this."

"My Path already caused nothing but suffering, Kaira," she replied, clenching her fingers around her glass. "I still remember the look on your face the day you told me Sallis died. When you realized I already knew, that I'd always known. That…" Yes'ruch took a long drink, "that I did nothing to stop it." She twirled the liquor in her glass, unable to look Kaira in the eye. "You were horrified. I was no Seer, I was a blunt cretin."

Slowly shaking her head, Kaira replied, "That was years ago, Yes'ruch. I was bereaved and foolish, you should not have taken my outburst to heart." She took another sip of her drink, "I am sorry for my words, I did not mean for them to affect you so."

"Your words were but a single grain in the desert I contended with," she replied, attempting to take a drink of her strong brew as her throat clenched again. "You cannot imagine the things I have seen. Sallis' death was one of many such events, each playing over and over every night, tragedies but a breath away."

"But how many did you avert?" she said, raising her eyebrow. "How many lives did you save with your foresight? Sallis may have died, but his squad survived." She bowed her head slightly, "I know this now. It was his duty, his honor. That is why you did not interfere. Why you… never told me."

Yes'ruch stared across the small table at her friend, the twinkling lights of the café catching the tears beginning to well in her eyes. "Is that why you walk the Path of the Warrior now?"

"I feel closer to him," she said, looking into the middle distance. "I know he is gone, but I carry his mantle with pride."

"Sallis would never have wanted you to give up your life of happiness for the battlefield," Yes'ruch replied.

Kaira shot her a fierce glare, "Do not talk to me of life choices, lost one!" She slammed her glass into the table, "I serve my people with pride and valor. All of us are called, Yes'ruch, and yet I never even served in the Black Guardians. At least I do not squander the lives of others chasing petty visions of former years."

Yes'ruch stared at her with a pained expression and her eyes softened.

"I am sorry, you did not deserve that." She took a long drink, finishing her beverage in one draught. "I never understood why Sallis felt the need to fight, to go off on campaigns far from the Craftworld. But when I learned of his death… it suddenly became clear." Kaira twiddled the empty glass between her fingers, "He died for his squad, he served his Craftworld, but I am the one he fought for."

"I should have told you," Yes'ruch said, placing her hand on her friend's. "In truth, I was already so far down the Path… the notion never even occurred to me."

"As it should be," Kaira said. "You are a Seer, Yes'ruch, you can no more deny that than Sallis could deny his duty to Ulthwé."

"But you hated me, Sallis rejected my friendship, even other Seers turned from my words."

Kaira shook her head lightly, "I was ignorant and foolish. Sallis, well, he was never one to put much stock in the Seers visions." She looked wistfully in the distance, "Perhaps that was for the best, all things considered."

Yes'ruch sipped her drink, the intoxicating effects slowly easing the tension in her mind. She looked back at Kaira, who returned to her previous stoic demeanor.

"So, why did you want to see me again after all these years?" Kaira asked.

Exhaling deeply, Yes'ruch looked at the swirling liquid in her glass, "Loneliness."

Kaira's brow furrowed with sad pity as she watched her friend sink a little further into her seat.

"I took the Path of Service to connect with people again. To rekindle whatever was lost, whatever I shed when I chose to live between perception and reality." She took a long, hard drink, finishing the glass. "But all I garner is ridicule."

"You are running from your true calling," she said flatly. "How can you expect to find happiness in that?"

"I find tranquility," Yes'ruch replied with a sigh. "It is not enough, but it is more than the Path of the Seer ever offered."

"It is no sin to desire peace of mind, but your decisions impact the lives of others." She folded her hands, appearing quite the military type, while waiting for a response.

Yes'ruch did not have one to give. Was she selfish for pursuing her own happiness? For wanting to return to the way things were before she nearly became lost on her Path? She felt the indignation well in her stomach, Kaira was many things in her time but she never understood what it was like to see the future and the tangled, uncaring tapestry Fate weaved. The lies of mercy and honor were laid bare over the centuries of spilt blood she had witnessed. Tactlessly, almost instinctually, she replied, "Let others worry about themselves. I am not my brother's keeper."

Kaira's gaze darkened and Yes'ruch could feel the pressure of her mind on her own. "Then I cannot tolerate your selfish indulgence in this frivolity." With that she moved her seat back, preparing to leave.

"Wait, Kaira," Yes'ruch called out.

She looked back but still turned away, "If you cannot see the necessity of your Path… If you continue to waste your talents _polishing statues_ , then you are as lost to us as the _Druchii_."

Yes'ruch stood bolt upright and shouted, "Is that all I am to you then!? A Seer, a conduit to the Warp, something to be used and thrown away when my bones turn to crystal and my mind is shattered to a million ends?" She leaned over on the table, "Do my desires mean nothing?"

The whispering Eldar at the café did naught but gawk as Kaira shook her head in disgust, "Do not embarrass yourself, Yes'ruch, you sound like a child ready to enlist with the Rangers." She stepped away, but paused one last time, "Listen to my words, for they are likely the last you shall ever hear of me. If you genuinely wish for the acceptance of others, you must embrace what it means to be yourself. That is why we call you 'lost one'."

Yes'ruch stood there, slowly sinking back into her chair as her friend of hundreds of years walked out of her life with the finality of a coffin nail. There were no words for this, no consoling poems or songs could encapsulate the overpowering grief she held inside. In her heart of hearts she still loved Kaira as she would a sister, but that just allowed her words to cut even deeper, like the swords she wielded in the Aspect Shrine. Eldar around her murmured with tongues, gestures, and minds, but she did not care. Their opinions were petty nothings compared to the condemnation Kaira laid on her.

The evening waned into night as Yes'ruch sat there, drinking and thinking deeply about her present course. The strands of Fate curled around destruction as they always seemed to do, but she could no longer see clearly the outcome. Her previous meditations never reached this far, not after flowing down that frayed end of time she somehow managed to find herself on. Besides, now that Emerseth knew of the danger lurking in the solar system, the matter was out of her hands. Far more influential Eldar now guided the lives of her people, the torch was passed, her duty as a Seer was fulfilled.

And yet it continued to bother her. Yes'ruch took the long way home, walking across the thoroughfares that connected the districts of the dome she lived in, taking time to think in the quiet night. Perhaps it was the resonance of Kaira's words, or maybe it was the strangeness of looking at the pall of an at least partially unknown future for the first time in centuries. Whatever the case, by the time she returned to her dormitory, the call of the Seer's Path gripped her mind like an addiction. Her arms trembled, and she clenched at her bones as if the tiny crystals formed within were demanding she indulge her curiosity.

She fought the urge, peeling her clothing off and stretching out on her bed. She was a Servant now, nothing more. Yes'ruch slid under her silken covers and gazed at the holographic night sky faintly glowing above. The call of her former Path raged in her mind like a fever. Sweat beaded on her crown as her temples throbbed with heat and anxiety. Something was coming, she could feel it. Not the cold hand of doom that was the Necrons or the inner dread that was She Who Thirsts, this was a threat far more familiar. The yearning to know more tugged at her mind but she fought it. Shutting her eyes, Yes'ruch rolled over in the covers, thinking over her work the next day. The statues she would polish, or perhaps a walkway she would sweep. The repetitive actions repeated in her mind's eye. Spraying, polishing, wiping away, over and over. As she pictured it clearly, the scene drove the yearning away. Slowly she felt herself drifting to sleep, polishing sculptures and pruning trees in her mind. Some were in the shape of birds, some of other Eldar, and even one of a transparent mask. Yes'ruch felt herself staring at the curious, mercurial surface in her mind. She had never seen anything like it, why was she thinking of this? The question did not linger, for as soon as she began to wonder she fell asleep.


	3. Fly By Night

A shroud was lifted from her eyes and Yes'ruch found herself standing on a cliff top. Sparse grass flecked the crest as its exposed face gave way to bare, smooth rock. Spread below her, spires of metal and hewn stone extended into the distance. This she recognized as the gaudy and cumbersome architecture of the human cities, though which one in particular she neither knew nor cared. By human standards it was rather small, with the waning sunset casting shadows of the city upon rolling fields of grain and green pastures outside the walls. Although the city was below her interest, the planet itself seemed to call to her. It was peaceful and somehow vaguely familiar, as one might address an old acquaintance. Eldar feet once trod this world, she thought.

A lonely church bell rang out over the city blocks. Droves of humans crawled from their homes, slowly meandering into the streets like roaches and Yes'ruch scowled at the invasive species. Some wore filthy work clothes, having just walked off the fields, others wore robes of the clergy. They strolled with bowed heads toward a fane of the human religion in the center of town. It was built as much like a fortress as a place of worship, and from the adorned gateway to the pruned courtyard, every inch was patrolled by warriors in silver armor, polished so clean that they reflected the evening glare. Her eyes narrowing, Yes'ruch realized they were almost all women. In fact, their banners and colors resembled those on the corpses left by the _Druchii_ several years ago on that contemptible Necron infested moon.

All sound faded away as her ears began pulsing with the vibrations of the Warp. The only thing she could hear was the beating of her heart and her own sharp breaths. Across the sky, sinews of the Webway popped and sparked as bleak vessels tore into reality. Ashen black and midnight purple triremes soared through the air with great speed, descending upon the surface like locusts upon the wheat. These _Druchii_ wasted no time in their malevolence, tearing through the crowds in the streets with their scythevanes, leaving red plumes and gushing bodies in their wake. Looking down from the ledge to the scene below, Yes'ruch saw the culling of hundreds of humans at a time, their city homes and distant farms burned to cinders in the cascade of needle-sharp grav-ships.

Wyches danced from rooftop to rooftop, darting inside windows or through doorways to pull hamstrung and panicked humans from their holes, their mouths wide and shrieking. Yes'ruch was relieved she was spared their agonized cries as the massacre continued unabated. Poisonfire drenched their paltry defenders in a river of crystal shards, their bodies reduced to sludge on the pavement from the toxins within. Those humans near the fane clamored for shelter within, the warrior women doing their best to hurry the stragglers inside the gate before it was unceremoniously slammed shut on the massed throng. Those who were saved pushed inside the walls of the temple proper as the armor-clad women took their places along the exterior, baring guns and flamers with menace. War machines rolled from the wings of the chapel, fanning swathes of fire and scorching melta at any ship that drew too close.

The _Druchii_ attack coalesced once again and the grav-ships circled the temple like a tornado of insects. From their midst a smattering of the ashen craft careened towards the gates, their pilots caring little about the mass of fire and destructive rounds pelting their ships. One by one the vessels exploded in the overwhelming firepower, causing chunks of debris and hapless occupants to be flung, flaming and tumbling over the front gate. As the broken ship crashed into the courtyard beyond however, the expected corpses of the passengers and crew stood upright and hurled themselves unflinching at the gathered humans. Hulking beasts of flesh and bone and steel tore at the armor the humans wore, rending them apart as the humans' weapons caused devastating wounds that went unfelt by their altered and drug-addled minds. One by one the valiant human defenders were left torn and dismembered, some killed, but most left clinging to life, lying in a pool of their own blood. Diligent servants with tarnished steel masks gathered them like cordwood and heaped their broken forms aboard waiting grav-ships outside the gates. As the courtyard defenders were picked clean, colossal monstrosities battered the cathedral doors open or cut holes in the walls with the piercing heat of their tail-mounted cannons.

Horrified to witness such a scene, Yes'ruch withdrew back from the cliffside. Pangs of fear and hatred welled inside her as the image of the twisted human bodies piled on the grav-ships burned in her mind. She had no love for the mon-keigh, gods knew how many she had killed herself over the centuries, but this was different. These were not the swift deaths of assassination or the culling of a Chaos-infested rabble. This was butchery. Yes'ruch turned to look again as the doors of the temple flew open. Scorpion-like monsters lumbered out, each holding a dozen humans in their sadistic claws. The women's silver-plated limbs, stained with blood, were pulled from their sockets, causing their bodies to dangle like ragdolls as they were hurled carelessly onto the waiting ships. As the living prisoners stacked on the decks, the ships began to withdraw at a leisurely pace, their captains drinking in the pain they carried like a perfumed aroma.

Feeling a presence behind her, Yes'ruch turned around and gasped, then realized her own voice was the only thing she'd audibly heard thus far. A figure stood in the grass, clad from head to foot in a neatly checkered blue and fuchsia suit. His head was draped in a purple cowl with copper tassels swaying from the ends, and held in his firm hand was a jester's staff. She immediately recognized this man as a member of the Harlequins, but what shocked her most was his mask. It was clouded and silver, and its reflection seemed only to bear the dim visions she held in her own mind. Harlequins were no ordinary Eldar, and this was no ordinary Harlequin.

"Yes'ruch of Iyanden," he said.

Instinctively, Yes'ruch reached down to where her combat knife was sheathed on her mesh Guardian armor. Instead she found herself holding the scabbard of a witchblade. The handle was long, like a bastard sword, and it sang to her the song of Kaela Mensha Khaine. Looking back to the figure, she crouched as if ready to strike. "Stay back, Shadowseer. I have no business with you or your kind."

The Harlequin raised his staff in a casual gesture, "But we have business with you, Farseer."

"I am no longer on the Path of the Seer, and for that matter, I am no longer a child of Iyanden," she replied, clenching the witchblade.

With a warm, hearty laugh the Shadowseer swirled his staff above his head, "Your choice in the matter is an illusion, Farseer. I did not cause you to appear as you do. This is your dream, after all."

Yes'ruch looked around. She was wearing a Seer's robes, complete with casting runes on her belt. The raid taking place below intensified as more and more _Druchii_ vessels shot out of the Webway, scattering into the horizon. "Where are we? Why have you brought me here?" she demanded.

"I have not brought you anywhere," he replied. "Your own visions have taken you to this place. I am merely here to interpret and to make known the many parts of this great comedy you might fail to see."

"My visions?" Glancing once more over the ledge, she said, "You are daft, Shadowseer. What good does it do me to see mon-keigh being hunted by the Commorrites?"

"A puzzling question, but the Laughing God would not bring us together were it not an event of some importance," he said. With grace unreal even to her Eldar eyes, the Shadowseer pranced to the edge and looked down, pretending to shield his eyes with his free hand from the waning sunlight. "It appears our Dark Kin have developed a taste for a rare and specialized female human."

"Their tastes are varied and perverse," she said, "and I would rather not dwell on them."

"Oh, I know," he replied flippantly, "But they are mon-keighs after all, what else would you expect?"

"What?" she wrinkled her nose in confusion. "No, I was referring to the Commorrites."

The Harlequin chuckled at his own joke. His laugh seemed unnaturally high for such a baritone male voice. "Come now, Farseer, have you no taste for exquisite theatre?" He motioned over the chaos below, "In their so doing, this raid is the liberation of a Maiden World from the befouling clutches of the human Imperium."

A Maiden World? Yes, she thought, of course, that would explain the presence she felt in her mind. Yes'ruch watched the miserable scene continue to unfold but felt no amnesty towards the Commorrites. Their task, while perhaps abstractly for the good of her people, was nonetheless unconscionable. The defiant, the valorous, and the cowardly alike were cut down in swathes of pain and immeasurable suffering before her until she had to turn away, the bile rising in her throat.

"It troubles you?" the Shadowseer asked, withdrawing from the spectacle.

She swallowed hard, "What possible benefit could come of seeing these atrocities?"

"The strife of conflict is held from most Eldar, even your warriors," he said, gently twirling the staff in his fingers. "When they dawn their war masks they can become just as savage and brutal as our Dark Kin. Yet you do not allow your mask to dull your mind, you willfully experience the dirge of warfare. Why?"

"I have to see it," she stepped away from the ledge a bit more, "for perspective."

"Perspective?" the Harlequin mused, his staff tapping his chin in mock confusion.

"To see the lives lost, the sacrifices made for a cause or mission. It needs to be felt. Such things cannot be remembered as distant memories only after the fact, they must be experienced."

"But such raw, unfiltered emotions," he said, coming closer, "they must certainly be distracting, even detrimental to the mission. You are a liability on the battlefield."

"No," Yes'ruch replied firmly, ready to draw her weapon, "Too often I am the only clear mind."

"The Warlocks you serve under would disagree." He approached again, until he was almost right next to her, "Do you not trust their judgment?"

Yes'ruch shook her head, still unsure what this had to do with the vision she was lost in. "The Councils expect me to ignore my feelings and blindly follow orders," she said. "I cannot stay silent when lives are at stake."

With a flourish, the Shadowseer swept beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he gestured out over the terrifying scene below, "And that, my dear, is why Cegorach has seen fit to bring us this theatre."

"Unhand me!" she said, pushing the Harlequin away. "And explain this nonsense. I have no dealings with wretches of Commorragh or your Laughing God."

"Does nothing about this raid strike you as odd?" he said, moving beside her with silent grace. "It is such a mass of forces for purging so petty and insignificant a world."

Taking a moment to calm herself, Yes'ruch pondered the terrible event for a moment, "The _Druchii_ are indeed pouring a lot of resources into raiding such a remote location."

"This is no mere raid," the Shadowseer said. "This is annihilation and rebirth." He raised his hands over the killing fields below. "We are witnessing the rise of an empire."

This time it was Yes'ruch who laughed, "The day those dregs secure themselves outside of Commorragh is the day the Fall is forgotten and your kind are reduced to performing parlor tricks."

His mask entirely hid his expression, but with a flick of his wrist, the Shadowseer produced a deck of cards. Shuffling them once and fanning them before her, he said, "Please, take a card."

She looked him over and scoffed, "Very funny."

"Funny?" he growled, leaning in, "Do I look like I am in the funny business?"

Rather than answer and be drawn even further into the Harlequin's antics, she deigned to select a card from his outstretched hand. Flipping it over, she found the regal image of the Warlock Palmarias. "What do I do with it?"

He waved his hand dismissively, "Keep it, I have fifty one others."

"You are testing my patience, Harlequin!" Yes'ruch shouted.

The Shadowseer gave a distant, lazy chuckle, "Incidentally, the card you drew is the card of Kings. Or warlords, dignitaries, governors and the like. Specifically, the one who orchestrated this _grizzly_ enterprise." He shuddered at the notion in mock dismay.

Yes'ruch looked at the face again, "Your powers fail you, Shadowseer. This is a Warlock I serve and know well."

The Harlequin shrugged, "I cannot say. This is your vision after all. The _Druchii_ , the humans, the face on the card, all of this is merely an illusion to me." He tapped her on the forehead with his staff, "But to _you_ , this is the climax of a great tragedy."

Frustrated, she pushed his staff away, "Are you insinuating that an Ulthwé Warlock would conspire with the denizens of Commorragh just to sack a human farming world?"

"See for yourself," he said, pointing out over the battlefield.

Yes'ruch narrowed her eyes, straining to make out distinct shapes amongst the swirling grav-ships. As their forms became clearer, a bolt of shock rippled down her spine. Amid the stormy colors of the Druchii vessels, the black and bone of Ulthwé war machines glided in formation, observing the carnage from above.

Yes'ruch stumbled backwards, unable to comprehend what would drive her people to such ends. "This… is inconceivable! How could Palmarias allow this to happen?"

Stretching out his hand, the Shadowseer produced the deck of cards once more, "Would you like to play again?"

She stared at him for a moment, then tentatively drew another. A dark psychic aura emanated from the wraithbone card and her hand trembled as she held it.

"Oh… goody," the Harlequin said, his voice becoming more intense. "The card of the Fall." The Shadowseer's mask became more solid, its reflection twisting into her own scared visage. "Tell me, who is it?"

Hesitantly, Yes'ruch flipped the card over.

"If it is this Warlock again, I suppose that would be divine justice. Oh, what a poetic ending!" The Harlequin sang.

"It… is," she said, beholding the same handsome Eldar face as before. This time however it was marred with a thousand cuts. His cheeks were gaunt and his skin pale, yet his expression remained unchanged.

"Delightful!" the Harlequin proclaimed, bounding to the ledge again with excited energy, "Then you need do nothing more than watch the story unfold!" He spread his hands above his head as though unfurling a giant banner, "A prideful Warlock and his henchmen meet undignified ends at the hands of the very rapscallions they conspired with!"

"Wait, his henchmen?" Yes'ruch stepped towards him. "Just how many of my people are going to die because of his machinations?"

"Die? Who said anything about die?" He rolled his wrist over distant Raiders, their bows sagging with prisoners. "The Commorrites are not known for being so merciful."

Yes'ruch glared at him and he waved his hands in innocence, "Oh, not many, I am sure. A few dozen at most, but what is good theatre without a little blood?"

"A few _dozen!?"_

The Shadowseer shrugged, rocking his staff back and forth while pondering, "I know Ulthwé has a dearth of soldiers, but the stakes must be high." He snatched his staff close with emphasis, "This is drama!"

Yes'ruch seethed with indignant anger, how dare this outsider gleefully talk about the destruction of her people as if it was all for his amusement!? She grabbed his shoulder and spun the Harlequin around, but was repulsed in horror at what she saw. Reflected in the milky silver of his mask was the bloodied and torn body of Kaira. Her aspect armor was torn asunder and her dead, staring eyes pierced Yes'ruch's soul as they gazed unblinking from the Shadowseer's mask.

"What is the matter, Farseer?" he asked, his tone dour. "Do you not like what you see?"

"This… no, it cannot be…" she muttered breathlessly.

The Harlequin placed a hand on her shoulder, "Fret not, Yes'ruch. This vision of yours is but one of many possible outcomes, your future is not yet fixed."

Yes'ruch shook her head, clearing her mind and forcing the Eldar's hand away, "Fate cares not for our schemes, Shadowseer. My life is a testament to that."

"Oh but it does," he said, gesturing to himself. "Why do you think I am here?"

"To throw salt in the wound?"

"To illuminate!" he bellowed, twirling his staff in self-aggrandizement. "You asked why you were being shown this vision at all. Would you be seeing it if it was unavoidable? If your actions held no sway?"

Scrunching her brow at her own internal conflict, Yes'ruch did not reply.

His voice rose like a carnival barker, "You have been given a tremendous opportunity! To shape the future, to lend your aid and forge a new narrative upon this dismal series of events." He pranced back and forth from leg to leg with nervous energy, "To stop the evil Warlock, to spare your people, and to save the estranged Kaira, oh what a marvelous epic this is!"

"But I still do not understand why," she insisted. "Why would Palmarias do this? And why come to an outcast like me? Why not show any of the other Seers, one who's words might actually be heeded in the Councils?"

The Harlequin shrugged, "I do not hold the answers, Farseer. Perhaps you were shown these events for the same reason you do not hide yourself from the reality of your wars. You are the only one who can bear to listen."

Yes'ruch watched the tumultuous attack below. As the grav-ships left with their bounty, the smoke far off in the horizon billowed to fill the sky. The world was indeed being purged. Ulthwé warriors unloaded from their vehicles and roamed the temple and city streets, gunning down stragglers and bringing their corpses for the Commorrites. She put her hand to her face in shame, "This is barbaric."

"Oh, it is," the Harlequin said with a faux solemn nod. "At least to some of our kind. For others, it is sustenance."

"Let me leave this place," she demanded. "I do not wish to see anymore."

The Shadowseer perched atop its staff like a bird, balancing on the ball of his foot, "Take heart, daughter of Iyanden—"

"Do not call me that!" She flashed her witchblade, her sword taking the staff from under the Harlequin.

The mysterious Eldar caught himself, drawing the staff in one smooth gesture like a swordsman's rapier. "Very well," he said, "But remember what I said. This is but one possible future. Your decisions alone will direct your fate."

Sneering at such a juvenile suggestion, Yes'ruch replied, "I shall hold you to your claim, Harlequin."

Bowing in appreciation, the Shadowseer neared, his mask swirling with silver light. She felt it seep into her own mind, willing her awake from this nightmare as the veil was draped across her sight once more.

* * *

It was still the middle of the night when she awoke, gasping and panting for air as though she were being suffocated. Her bedroom was almost completely black, save for the imitation starlight dotting the ceiling of her dormitory. Yes'ruch found herself covered in sweat despite the cool air and her lack of clothing. Her skin stuck to her sheets as she rolled over, pausing as her racing heart slowed, the sinews of the Warp's energy still throbbing in her mind. This vision was more powerful than any she had experienced since ceasing the Seer's Path, and its contents were disturbing. Why would a Harlequin seek her out? Was this some elaborate ruse? Could she even trust them? None of it made sense, but she knew she had to speak to someone about it immediately.

In a flash she was dressed in whatever clothing she could throw together, a mish-mashed ensemble of bright yellow work pants and a dusky black robe. Not even stopping to wash off the itching sweat, Yes'ruch slammed her palm against the conduit by her door. Try as she might, she could not trace any familiar spirits in the Infinity Circuit. Palmarias, she figured, was probably still aboard the _Se'laman Thesria_. Unfortunately that meant he would be all but impossible to reach without military orders of some sort. Kaira however was likely training in the shrine. Often the warriors would bar their minds from outside interruption during their practice, though she felt Kaira's would never be truly open to her again, training or not. Emerseth was still locked in debate within the barred doors of the Seer's council, even further beyond her reach than Palmarias and Kaira. Nevertheless, Yes'ruch left a message for each of them, the imprint of her spirit as desperate and confused as she felt.

In spite of this, Yes'ruch's skin crawled. She could not wait for a response. Her mind still reeled from the image of her only friend lying eviscerated on the battlefield, she needed to go to her. Opening the door, she ran into the streets, he robes flying behind her like a spectre. Although she knew she looked ridiculous dashing through the night in such a getup, she did not care. Few Eldar still roamed the streets at this late hour, and the few that stopped to scowl she callously pushed aside. As Yes'ruch neared the end of the road she hailed an aircar from another conduit, her head still pounding. She took a deep breath as she waited, nervously scratched the itchy sweat rolling down the back of her neck, and puzzled a bit over the Harlequin who delivered this message. Mostly however she just wished for this mantle to be passed onto someone else, someone who did not already have the ire of the Warlocks and the reputation of an instigator. For now it seemed, just as before, it was the people around her who suffered most from her foresight.

A silver vessel lowered itself in front of her, the door opening silently as it leveled to a hover. Yes'ruch hurried inside, guiding the vehicle with her mind over the scenery below even before the door closed. Although the aircar was quickly brought to speed, Yes'ruch pressed her hands against the transparent resin, willing the craft to move faster. In the distance she could see the great Shrine of Asuryan, its structure bracing the surrounding blocks like an enormous column. Her hands balled into anxious fists as she sat, waiting restlessly for the aircar door to swoop down to the entrance. As the silver hatch gradually lifted she flung herself out, running toward the entrance of the Shrine and into the sacred halls of the Dire Avengers like a mad woman. No sooner had she entered the main archway than the butt of a shuriken catapult smashed her across the face, splitting her lip and bruising her cheek. Blanking out for a moment, Yes'ruch found herself lying flat on her back, staring up at the outstretched barrels of five polished shuriken catapults.

"How dare you trespass in the halls of Asurmen, vagabond," one said, his face stern and commanding. Although none of these warriors had their masks on, Yes'ruch could tell they were every bit as alert and disciplined as if they were on the field.

"I mean no intrusion, but I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with one of your warriors," she muttered, spitting out a dribble of blood across her chin.

The warrior who addressed her jammed her face with his weapon, "Our brothers are in training for a mission, there can be no interruptions."

"This one is enlisted as a Black Guardian," another said. "I recognize her from the _Se'laman Thesria_. She was with the Warlock, Palmarias, on that contemptible tomb world."

The Dire Avengers' grim faces softened to indifference and their weapons withdrew. "If that is so," the first Dire Avenger replied, "then why was she not called to arms with the rest of his ranks?"

The second man looked down at her as Yes'ruch wiped the blood from her face, her lips already beginning to swell. "She is the one he referred to as 'Lost One'."

The other Dire Avengers scoffed at this, but the first warrior shook his head. "A pity, but that would explain the Warlock's decision." Giving her room to stand up, he declared, "Leave this sanctum, Lost One. Your commission as a Black Guardian is no longer recognized."

"I cannot…" Yes'ruch stood to her feet, "I must speak a warning to my friend."

"You are neither a warrior nor a conscript, you have no business in this Shrine."

She stood her ground, "In my visions I have seen the horrid fates of dozens of Eldar including those among your own ranks. Lives hang in the balance, please."

The Dire Avengers looked perplexed by this, but the one who recognized her scowled. "Your derangement cost us lives on that moon, Lost One. We cannot afford to hear your misguided prattle, the toll is too great."

"My 'prattle' is the only reason Palmarias yet lives to stab me in the back," she spat. "Now let me through!"

The Dire Avengers locked their formation, barring the way. Five men across, they were hardly enough to fill the wide and cavernous entryway, but Yes'ruch knew such trained men would be more than enough to subdue her. Desperate and frustrated, she cried, "In Asurmen's name, can you not see I am trying to help you!? You and your brothers are going to be betrayed!"

"First you attempt to force your way into our Shrine," the Dire Avenger said. "Then you take our Phoenix Lord's name, and now you accuse our own kind of betrayal?" He placed his shuriken catapult on his back and drew his sword, the monomolecular blade ringing in the air as the bare metal tore from the sheath. "You have some gall."

Yes'ruch backed away as his brothers did likewise. They were no longer merely guarding the Shrine now, she had properly offended their honor. Turning on her heels, Yes'ruch ran back beyond the entry and into the city streets, making for the aircar still parked by the Shrine. Tumbling in, the aircar lifted immediately, pulling away from the lethal warriors. The Dire Avengers did not pursue, but one of them placed their hand on the Infinity Circuit conduit as she flew out of sight. Any attempt to get through to Kaira now would be impossible and potentially fatal. As the car drifted aimlessly through the Craftworld's interior domes, Yes'ruch felt the panic and sadness clutching at her heart. What was the point of seeing these visions if no one would listen? Palmarias revoked her conscription, Kaira was beyond reach, and even if she could be contacted, she would never believe her visions were true. What Eldar would trust the misguided ramblings of one not on the Seer's Path?

The aircar lolled through the air as bitter tears ran down Yes'ruch's cheeks. She had no friends to call upon now and no mentors from whom to seek advice. She could bang on the doors of the Seer's Council like a lunatic or attempt to force her way onto the _Se'laman Thesria_ , but such options were madness or death. She was an outcast. Once again, she would be forced to watch events unfold beyond her control. Once again, someone she cared about was going to die and she could not prevent it. Just as the Harlequin said, all she had to do was watch the story unfold. Was this all the Laughing God's twisted joke? She pulled her robes tighter around her body and felt the anger grow anew. There had to be a way to stop this, she would not be forced to observe another slaughter. Somehow this course of time needed to be changed, but no Eldar in their right mind would heed her warning.

A cold realization grasped at her mind. There was a way to change things, the same way they changed on that moon years ago. The humans in her vision were caught completely unaware, but if they were warned… Yes'ruch ran her thumb under her chin in thought. There was no way the pitiful human defenders could repel such a raid on their own, but even the smallest change could alter the future. Perhaps they could stall the Commorrites long enough for their traps to fail, or allow the Ulthwé warriors to escape their clutches. Or maybe…

Yes'ruch set her eyes on the massive stern of the world ship where the many Webway gates flickered idly. Consorting with the humans nearly cost her her place in Ulthwé society already. But she could not watch her people slip into the cold embrace of their spirit stones or worse, the nightmarish dens of Commorragh. Pulling the aircar with her mind, Yes'ruch drifted back towards her dormitory to gather what belongings she could. This, she thought, would be the last time her people would need to tolerate her trespassing. She had known the pleasure of serving Ulthwé for hundreds of years, but now, once again, she was an Outcast.


	4. Love's A Deadly Weapon

The spire of the Gypsy Road Kabal was alight with the splendor and glow of its magnificent patriarch. Sparing no expense in his décor, the prestigious Archon filled his galleries, halls, balconies, and landings with his finest artwork, macabre and otherwise. Slaves of all species were seen on the floor this day, washed and groomed like prizes themselves. Each performed a mundane task fit for their breeding with both diligence and quiet appreciation for the favors they were afforded. For today at least, they would be spared the whip. Every wall of the spire was garnished with tapestries, some of still living victims, others made of the rare fabrics and skins of esoteric species wiped from existence by Salendrid's own hand. The Archon strolled the vestibule at his leisure, admiring the beautifying work being done as a whole entourage followed behind, including Kylendris.

Wracks of the Didactic Cave, their bodies freshly hewn and tattooed with the peculiar beauty only a flesh sculptor could truly appreciate, marched behind their new Acothyst, Glaucon. An Haemonculus, an Eldar Kylendris had not yet had the personal trauma of meeting, wafted gracefully behind the Archon on needle thin legs. His figure was so unnaturally thin and tall he nearly had to bend beneath the vaulted ceiling. Withered limbs clutched a variety of arcane baubles, each of which ticked or shimmered with a keen glare that made Kylendris nervous to stand too close.

Beside the Archon marched Lady Arataire, her body swathed in luxurious furs. Her Bloodbrides, handpicked maidens of slaughter and unmatched physical perfection, formed a single file line behind her, led by their Syren, Chariath. It was behind them with the many other Wyches, arena fighters, and hangers-on that Kylendris found himself. His company were glory hounds and sycophants, each capable of slitting his throat before he could so much as flinch. The subtle looks and gestures they made to passersby as they rounded the halls kept him alert. For years he endured their constant derision, the Wyches of the Cult of Claws never letting him forget that he was hand-picked by the Syren herself. That was something he would not live down no matter how many foes he slew in the arenas.

The hall opened up as groveling slaves and Kabalite Warriors in spit-polished purple armor bowed before the passing Archon. Large double doors leading to his throne room yawned towards them, revealing a scene of ceremony and jest in equal measure. As he entered, the Archon's Incubi guard fanned out, creating a barrier between himself and the others present. Kylendris walked into the throne room with his fellow Wyches and the meaning behind all this posturing became clear. In the center, watched on all sides by Trueborn and Incubi guards, was a small group of Craftworlders. A Warlock in black and bone robes stood before them. Worry was set into his brow with just a tinge of disgust as the Archon's procession encircled the room. At his side, ten Dire Avengers held their shuriken weapons at rest. They looked like a somber blue island amongst the sea of splendid color and emotion roiling around them. Courtiers murmured and laughed at the stoic guests, their drab armor clashing with the intensity the Gypsy Road flaunted.

Salendrid casually took his seat on the throne of his spire, his Incubi moving beside him as the throng that paraded in his wake gradually maneuvered and relaxed around the large dais that overlooked the Craftworlders below. Kylendris looked down, twenty stairs rolled below him to the small, brave Eldar who now stood before one of the most powerful men in all of Corespur. Accepting a goblet from a Lhamaean courtier, a gesture Kylendris shuddered to imagine doing himself, the Archon nodded gently towards his guests below, "Warlock Palmarias of Ulthwé, this does come as a surprise." He took a sip, his lips creasing into a smile as he savored the wine inside before spitting the contents into a vase held by a slave. "What would cause the mighty soldiers of your Warp-torn nation to deign to venture into my realm?"

The Warlock bowed low, "Archon Salendrid, thank you for your generous welcome." Straightening up, he said, "I have come to propose a joint venture between the Gypsy Road Kabal and the warriors of the Craftworld Ulthwé, if your grace would be so inclined to hear the offer."

Salendrid's weak smile gave way to a full grin, it was unusual for the Craftworld Eldar to venture to the Dark City, and even more so to come with humility. Kylendris knew this flattery was not going to change the Archon's mind on the matter at hand, but it did set the negotiations for sparing their lives well in the Warlock's favor. With a wave of his hand, the Archon said reassuringly, "Speak, Warlock. You have my ear."

The Warlock reached slowly into his robes and produced a holographic projector. He thumbed across it to an impression of a planet, the dream-like window before them panning over the countryside and city blocks of a human settlement. "This magnificent world was seeded by our kin long ago. However, as with too many of our Maiden Worlds, it has become overrun with the rank and shiftless mon-keigh. In spite of our efforts our Exodite brethren, we are sad to say, did not survive their coming." Flicking his thumb, the sequence shifted to the baroque image of a human fane, "We require a more permanent foothold in this sector now, and what better way than to strike vengeance against these humans and reestablish our colony."

Salendrid sat back in his throne, "Your endeavor is touching, Warlock," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "but I fail to see how this involves the Gypsy Road in any way."

Several of the Bloodbrides standing beside Kylendris gave flirting and rude gestures towards the Dire Avengers, their revealing Wych suits showing off long, immaculate legs and bosoms that strained against supple leather bindings. The young pilot looked away, thankful that Chariath allowed him to continue wearing his pilot's helmet, lest the entire audience would see him blushing. In spite of his time here he still had not gotten used to the sensuality that came with being a member of a Wych Cult. Living with Archon Irons was one thing, but nothing had prepared him for these licentious girls.

The Warlock raised his hand, "There is a complication." The image shifted to a number of Eldar being held in human restraints, their flesh lashed and scarred from continuous whippings. Some were branded with the contrived scriptures of the mon-keigh, their skin still black from the hot iron. Amongst them was a face that looked familiar to Kylendris. Her eyes and mouth were sewn shut and her head shaved, but he could recognize that sneer anywhere.

"Erinyes Irons…" Salendrid said breathlessly, leaning forward in his seat.

"The human Ecclesiarchy captured them when they emerged from a webway portal not far from the human cities. It appears they were responsible for the previous capture of several members of their Inquisition, their so-called 'Sisters'." The Warlock nodded towards the Archon dutifully, "I thought it would be in our mutual interest to inform you of this development."

The taunts circling the throne room immediately gave way to whispers of suspicion and Kylendris grew restless. The entirety of Corespur knew the Iron Maidens tried to usurp Salendrid and that Archon Irons nearly succeeded in murdering him herself. Though he drove them off and shored up his alliance with the Cult of Claws, Salendrid never caught the one behind the mutiny in the first place. As a rising Archon, it would not do to let one's most outspoken rival survive, even as a prisoner of the mon-keigh. Erinyes Irons needed to be dealt with for she was the one and only Eldar who openly opposed Salendrid's rise and still drew breath.

The Archon steepled his fingers, gazing at the image of the naked and brutalized Eldar projected before his court. Kylendris could see the gears turning in his head. Killing Erinyes Irons would guarantee his position in the upper spires of Commorragh and put to rest any question of his power over the lesser Kabals he commanded, this was too fortunate an opportunity to pass up. With a silken tone he spoke at last, "What is it you request, Warlock?"

"Your assistance in cleansing the planet," he said.

His lip quivered a bit in annoyance, "As I already said, I do not see how my forces are required for this undertaking. Ulthwé is more than capable of ridding this world of such a paltry human inhabitance."

The Warlock bowed once more, "Please forgive me, Archon, but this is a covert undertaking even amongst the warriors of Ulthwé. There are events unfolding that cloud the judgment of my contemporaries, and I fear by the time they are willing to act it will be too late." He gestured to the Dire Avengers behind him, "Of course, I will lend what support I can, but my forces alone are not enough to take the planet."

The Haemonculus, who up until this point was eyeing the handiwork the human torturers had done on the Eldar bodies, leaned over the Archon's throne. His spindly frame bent over so far to reach his ear it was as though he were speaking to a child. The Archon nodded as he whispered something, a smile wicking across his icy countenance. "In return for this raid you ask," the Archon said, "I would like all the prisoners of this world, both Eldar and human."

"You wish to capture the _humans_?" The Warlock asked.

"The Coven of the Didactic Cave would be interested in acquiring a few more specimens for their collection, and I cannot refuse a chance to be in their good graces."

The Warlock bowed his head slightly, "So be it."

"You will hear from us shortly, Warlock," he said, taking another sip of his wine. "In the meantime, return to your business. I will send for your council as soon as our preparations are ready."

"Thank you, your Excellency," he said, backing away.

The Dire Avengers circled the Warlock as he approached the main door, stepping into a hallway lined as far as the eye could see with purple armored Kabalites. As soon as the door was shut, those in the throne room broke into gossip and speculation, their murmurs ringing in Kylendris' ears. The Archon sipped his wine once more, his nostrils flaring, "Oh Erinyes, the torture you endure now is paradise compared to what I have in store."

The Bloodbrides and Wyches gradually began to disperse as their Succubus fell into conversation with the Haemonculus of the Didactic Cave. While not the vaunted Meliankris, it appeared she had met this ghastly Eldar before. Perhaps, Kylendris thought, during her resurrection. Amidst the carousal that grew up around him, Chariath briskly pulled him aside. She led him by the arm and the small pilot had to run to keep up with her long strides.

"Is-is there something wrong, mistress?" he asked.

"We have matters to discuss, Kylendris," she replied sternly. The breather covering her face seethed a white steam as she exhaled, the splintermind extract sharpening her wits. She led him through the crowd, pushing lesser Eldar out of the way as they walked through the side hall. Cold sweat rolled down his back. Her stiff grip and sense of urgency made Kylendris feel as though he were being led to his own execution. As they moved across a balcony overlooking Corespur she halted. Most of the crowd was still inside, with only the warrior guards and a few amorous patrons lingering outdoors. Letting his arm go, she said point blank, "Your prior allegiance is going to be a problem."

"You mean with the Iron Maidens?" Kylendris asked.

She did not reply, her withering eyes telling him he knew the answer.

"I swore fealty to the Cult of Claws," he replied. "My loyalty to the Iron Maidens died with that oath."

"I know your oath, but I also know the denizens of Commorragh. Your word is not enough."

"So… so what will you do with me?" he asked, taking a step back from the imposing Syren.

Chariath placed her hands on her hips, feeling the handles of her trophy lightning claws, "Until this matter with the former Archon Irons is dealt with, you will not be permitted to go unescorted."

"Umm… unescorted?" he looked around her and into the hallway beyond, where several of the Bloodbrides were taunting a patrol of Gypsy Road warriors. "You mean _they_ are going to follow me, my Syren?"

She nodded, "I will appoint Wyches to stay with you under strict orders not to let you out of their sight."

Kylendris backed up until he ran into the stone railing of the balcony, nearly falling over before he caught himself, "This cannot be happening."

"It is necessary," the Syren said. As Kylendris sank further down the railing she added, "Your loyalty to the Cult of Claws has been exemplary thus far. Consider this a favor on my part. I am not allowing others to tarnish your reputation with suspicions."

"But my Syren, please," he said, his voice giving way to desperate, throaty pleading. "They are going to kill me."

"They will do no such thing," she replied flatly.

"No, I mean…" the pilot swallowed hard, "Before joining the Cult of Claws I never personally dealt with Wyches. They can be rather… _aggressive_ when it comes to their um, _desires._ "

"I know they can."

"They pursue me on my way to my chambers. They ambush me while I maintain my jetfighter. I cannot tell you how many times I have found their… presents on my flight stick."

"I know."

He looked around helplessly, "Well, why do you allow it?"

The Syren crossed her arms, "Kylendris, your prudish nature was novel, even quaint, but it has now become a problem." His head fell a bit, this conversation was a long time coming. "Loyal or not, without the camaraderie my Wyches share, your usefulness in our raids is hindered. My gladiatrixes are sensual even by Kabalite standards and they cannot trust what they cannot touch. I will not risk their lives or yours in this coming venture without knowing you are completely dedicated to my Cult."

Kylendris slumped to his knees, "But my Syren, I—"

"Your skills as a pilot are unquestionable. I would even consider you for a wing leader, but you must prove your commitment to the others first."

"But I—"

"No," she said, smacking him across the helmet with the back of her hand. "No more excuses."

"But I have never even lain with a Com-"

Kylendris' hands flew to his face, smacking his visor where his mouth would be as the heads of everyone present turned. Chariath raised an eyebrow, the first look of genuine emotion the stolid Syren produced during the entire conversation. It was bad enough to have a prudish reputation, but if word spread he was not native to the webway, he was as good as dead. The Wyches of the Cult alone would tear him apart just trying to get first dibs.

Chariath glared at him, her eyes a strange mix of curiosity and deadly seriousness. "You have never what?"

"Ah, nothing, my Syren," he said, desperately pulling himself to his feet on the balcony railing.

Grabbing him by the wrist, she led the diminutive pilot back inside. Kylendris stumbled to keep up with her as she marched past dozens of carousing Eldar in the main hallway too busy gossiping about the Craftworlders to notice his less than graceful appearance. As they entered the throne room, both of them stopped and looked around. Salendrid was gone, as was the spindly Haemonculus, Lady Arataire, and several of his Trueborn Dracons. His retinue of Incubi stood outside the door to his private chambers, forming a solid wall of armor and glaives which they menaced at any who ventured too near. Apparently the Archon wanted to waste no time in discussing this turn of events with his cohorts.

Glancing down at him once more, the Syren dragged Kylendris right towards the Incubi guards. At this he resisted and tried to wrench himself free, but his efforts were in vain. The Syren's grip was like iron, and her gloved hand easily reached halfway up his forearm. If Chariath noticed his struggles she gave no indication, and it was only at the brandishing of the Incubi's massive sword that she stopped.

"I have business with my Succubus," she said firmly.

"None may enter, Syren Chariath," an Incubus replied, matching her tone. "The Archon is in his war council and has ordered no disturbances."

Pausing a moment, she looked back and forth with exaggerated suspicion. "Does the Archon provide… accommodations for his guests?"

"Wait, what?!" Kylendris stuttered.

The Incubus who addressed her narrowed his eyes and looked down at him disapprovingly. "Yes," he said, "you will find them on the floor below, on the hall to the right."

"Thank you," she said, turning on her heels and dragging the pilot with her.

"The Archon would appreciate it if you kept the blood off the carpets," he said as she left.

"Of course," Chariath muttered, pulling Kylendris along as though he were a ragdoll.

With every step the pilot felt his heart beating faster and faster until he could swear he was choking on it. His tongue felt as dry as cotton as they rounded the corner and began the decent to the next floor. He wanted to say something, to beg for his life or bargain with his Syren to stop whatever it was she had planned but nothing came out but broken murmurs of "Please".

"This nonsense ends now, Kylendris," Chariath said as they approached the hallway the Incubus spoke of. Amongst the usual flourish of decorations were large doors leading to a variety of guestrooms. Judging by the changing décor of each entryway, he suspected every one held a different theme depending on the tastes of the guest. Chariath picked one that seemed to suit her. The banner of her Wych Cult was flaunted outside the door as though it were reserved just for the occasion. No doubt several Cult of Claws members had a standing arrangement with the Kabalites. Sparing him little dignity, she opened the door and threw him inside.

The guest chambers were as sensual as they were deadly. Hooks, chains, poisonous blades, and a variety of gladiatorial weapons hung on racks beside a large bed. Pegs were nailed into the walls for leather straps that hung from the ceiling to be cinched to. The floor was thick tile with sprawling carpets laid from the bed to the door, each woven from silken hair in elaborate designs. Chariath shut the door and locked it behind them, then turned to face her prey.

"M-my Syren, what do you intend to do?" Kylendris said, backing away as she entered the blood-colored glow of the wall sconces.

"Something I should have done long ago," she said, stepping towards the array of weaponry on the wall. She looked it over carefully before withdrawing a venom blade, its steel dripping with toxins Kylendris could only imagine. Running her finger along the blade, she grabbed a drop and slipped it under her breathing apparatus, tasting the concoction. Her eyes narrowed in a way he had never seen before, almost playfully. "Get on the bed, Kylendris."

The pilot moved towards the bed slowly, "My Syren, I beg of you, please d—"

Before he could finish his plea for mercy, the Syren had tackled him onto the bed like a lioness. In a flash he was pinned beneath her towering body, his chest being pressed into the soft mattress by her leg as she held the dagger to his neck, "Do not speak." He choked on his tongue, nodding desperately. Chariath smiled, "Now, let me see what is under this helmet."

As she lifted it off his head Kylendris' hands flew up, shoving it back down. This act of desperation won him an elbow to the chest and he gasped for air, clenching his ribs. His hands preoccupied, Chariath yanked the helmet away. Brown locks of tangled hair flew around his long, youthful face. This was not the porcelain skin of a Commorrite, which radiated a dark beauty when freshly nourished. It was a supple and natural youth from a body and soul only recently, or not yet entirely, consumed by the Dark City's taint. Chariath's eyes glowed. On his right cheek, bold and black as the day it was hewn, was the tattoo of a serpent.

"Saim-Hann…" she whispered. "Little pilot, you are full of surprises."

Kylendris grimaced as he coughed for air, his chest sore. Most knew he was a Trueborn, a few that he was wealthy, but no one before now knew of his true origins. While a Craftworlder living in Commorragh was not unheard of, the chances of them surviving for long were slim as they were easy marks. Lying on the bed, held firmly against the mattress, he felt the fear and apprehension slowly give way to indignation.

"Yes, yes now you know," he huskily said. "What are you going to do about it?"

Chariath shifted her weight, straddling the young male between her thighs, "Nothing."

"Nothing!?" he said, almost demanded, as he propped himself up.

"You serve my Cult dutifully and this explains all your curious tendencies." She brushed the hair from his face to get a better look at the tattoo. "I do not care about your origins, only your loyalty."

"So…" he glanced towards the door, "then I am free to go?"

Pressing him into the mattress with her hand, she leaned over him, "Not quite. Part of that loyalty is devotion to your Syren."

Chariath placed her blade under his flight suit and pulled it down, slicing the fabric wide open. Kylendris shuddered as his bare chest was exposed, the Syren tracing the blade around his slender form. Small red lines in the shape of the Cult's heraldry, a clawed circle, beaded wherever the dagger touched. The metal felt cool on his skin, but as the venom worked its way into the wound, he felt a fire run along every cut. Kylendris reeled beneath her, struggling to move away as she finished the design on his torso, the heat growing smoothly into a searing throb.

Kylendris groaned as the Syren leaned back to admire her handiwork. Dribbles of blood rolled off his chest and onto the sheets, staining the white satin. Unclasping the breather from her mouth, Chariath pulled it away. Her expression was stern, made even more imposing by an array of small tubes connecting to her neck and face. In spite of this, her skin was as supple as any Wych's, with full, purple lips and a slightly upturned nose. The small pilot ceased his flailing, the pain momentarily replaced with amazement. This was the first time he could remember seeing his Syren without her mask.

"Do not look… so surprised…" she said in a throaty voice. Pulling the seam on her wychsuit, the thin material shrank away, revealing her voluptuous figure as well as a grizzly looking scar above her left breast. It was round and sunken, as though a powerful weapon had shot straight through her. How she could have survived such a grievous wound he did not know, but he suspected it was a combination of drugs and sheer determination. Chariath's breathing grew more strained as she leaned down, licking the pilot's wounds clean and savoring the sweet taste of Craftworlder blood.

"My Syren, do not…" Kylendris could not finish before he felt his crotch firmly in her grasp. Wincing in pain, it was all he could do not to cry out as she forced his manhood against his hips with her palm. She was not gentle but at the same time, between the burning cuts, the feeling of her breasts teasing against his skin, and the sensual lapping of her tongue along his wounds, Kylendris felt exhilarated. He felt the blood rush to his head, his ears radiating heat as the first throbs of pleasure began to well in his length.

Brandishing the venom blade once more, Chariath ran it along the pilot's face. Tears welled in his eyes as the pain coursed through his long, sensitive ears. Already bright red, they now throbbed and ached from the heat. Blood ran down into his hair, matting it against the pillowcase as he snarled through gritted teeth. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it against his ribcage, as though he were willing it to explode. The Syren's lips danced around the edges of his neck, biting him here and there, drawing yet more succulent lifeblood for her to taste.

"Your pain… is exquisite, Kylendris," she said, now panting for air. Red streaks ran in dribbles down the sides of her mouth as she leaned over him for another bite.

Kylendris could not respond if he wanted to, his mind was overwhelmed with the agony the venom blade inflicted. Its toxins wrenched at his senses and he struggled to clear his vision of the tears welling in his eyes. Realizing this, the Syren began grinding him into the mattress, her vulva clearly visible through her tight wychsuit. Kylendris tried to push her away to give himself a moment to recuperate, but she laid her arm across his neck, forcing him down and choking him as she squeezed him between her thighs.

With a muffled gurgle the pilot frantically pulled at her arm, desperate to free his windpipe as she pulled down his form-fitting pants. Chariath released his throat long enough for her to remove what remained of her own garment, then pulled him start upright.

"Gods… oh gods the pain!" he shouted as she pressed his face against her bosom, his chest bleeding freely down his torso, "Why are you doing this!?"

The Syren ran her clawed fingernails through his hair, digging into his skin as she caressed him like a pet. Her other hand held the base of his skull in a death grip, forcing him to remain still as she saddled up. "Because, Kyle… I am a woman…" Her vagina slid along the pilot's growing cock, "And I have needs."

All Kylendris could manage was a slight yelp as the Syren forced him inside her, the slickness of her pussy making for easy entry. He was not a large man, and he could feel the laughter in her chest as she began to bob up and down, her hips grinding him further and further beneath her.

"What was it… you said?" Her breathing became coarse and labored as she romped on his cock but the enthusiasm never waned from her eyes. "Never lain with… *cough* a Commorrite?" Kylendris began to wonder if something was wrong with her until she leaned forward and grabbed him by the ears. The pilot shrieked in pain as his flesh seared anew, the passion only serving to intensify his natural sensitivity. The Syren rubbed and tugged at his still bleeding tips, the skin red just as much from his own blood as from the constant stimulation.

Instinctually he reached up and tried to pull her away but all that did was drive her on. Her breasts pressed against his face as she clamped down on his neck, drawing blood again while pounding him into the bed with her swaying hips. Squirming and moaning, the little pilot could only beg for his life. Her fangs held him in place as her hands gripped his ears, forcing him into the pillow, her orgasm building rapidly.

"Yes… scream for me…" she muttered. Her breathing was growing pained now, desperate. For a split second Kylendris wondered what might be wrong, but a moment later was reminded how perilous his situation was. Chariath reached for the venom blade once more, raising it in the air with one hand while holding his chest down with the other as if she were about to carve out his heart. Kylendris screamed, the blood-curdling terror-infused death cry of a man pinned to a bed and about to be skinned alive by a crazed gladiatrix. Were he Commorragh born and raised he might have felt shame in this, but in his fright he found his salvation. Kylendris was no psyker by Eldar standards, but he still held onto the natural psychic ability that all of his kind possess when not bred in the webway. Even as retarded as his spirit sight had become, the little Craftworlder's mind touched Chariath's. His fears, his passions, his desperate plea for mercy all resonated as his spirit momentarily glimpsed her own. It was all the Syren needed.

With a hoarse cry, Chariath doubled over in ecstasy, her orgasm wracking her body as though she were being electrocuted. Kylendris winced as the dagger fell from her hand, grazing his chest once more as it fell from the bed and clattered to the tile floor. It was all the Syren could do to keep herself upright as her pussy wrenched at the pilot's cock. Her toned abs trembled and her breathing came only in ragged, short bursts punctuated with a desperate gasp, each more high-pitched than the last. Kylendris tried to push her off but she held him tight, digging into his hips with her legs until her pleasure at last subsided.

With all the grace of a drunkard the Syren rolled off his lap and began flailing her arms around, desperately pawing through her clothes. Her breathing had become a constant hacking cough and he was sure she was in trouble. Still, considering the torment he endured, Kylendris found schadenfreude in her slow and frankly pathetic death. Alas, it was not to be. Chariath found her breather and stuck it in her mouth, nursing it with both hands and sucking in the air as a dying man in the desert might drink from a cup. Steam billowed from the vents as her chest heaved and slowed, the oxygen finally reaching her lungs. Regaining her composure, the Syren turned to him, the breather stuck in her mouth.

"That was something I never experienced before," she said with admiration.

Kylendris did not respond. He was still bleeding and the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, amplifying his pain.

"Such pain, such terror... it is intoxicating."

He leaned up a bit, careful not to aggravate the many cuts lining his chest, "You looked like you were about to die."

"So did you."

A chill ran through him when she said that, but the Syren rubbed her hand over the scar on her chest, "My lungs are not what they used to be."

Kylendris furrowed his brow, "That sounds dangerous for a gladiatrix, why not get that fixed?"

"That tattoo is dangerous in Commorragh, why not get it removed?"

His hand immediately flew to his cheek. Giving a slight nod, he reached for his pilot's helmet and held it in his lap. "I suppose I understand."

"No, you do not," she said flatly, rising above him though still on her knees. "You will never truly understand our prides and passions, what it is like to be a Commorrite."

He shuffled away, his back hitting the headboard, "I apologize, mistress—"

"Do not apologize." He could not see her lips for the breather but her eyes were smiling. "I will never understand your eccentricities nor your choice to come here. The difference is, my life does not depend on pretending I do."

"So… what are you going to do now?" he asked, the defiance just starting to creep back into his voice.

She sighed, the vapor rising from her breather in a cloud, "If they see your marking, my Wyches will kill you for your spirit stone, regardless of my orders."

"But I do not carry my spirit stone."

Chariath shrugged, "Then they would kill you because they are angry you do not have your spirit stone."

He raised his hands defeat, "That makes no sense!"

"Wyches are chosen for their brashness as much as their skill," she replied. "Regardless, you still require an escort. I cannot allow your allegiance to become a question."

"But you just said the other Wyches would kill me if they ever found out, which is what I said in the first place!" he cried. "How am I supposed to keep this a secret with them constantly watching me?"

She lowered her head slightly, "I shall watch you."

Kylendris stared at her blankly for a moment. Her skin shimmered with the sweat and heat of youth, rejuvenated now by his fear and pain, "Oh no…"

"You shall be my personal courtesan," she said, moving closer. "Anyone who touches you shall have to answer to me."

"My Syren, please, I d—"

She sprung upon him, the Wych suit dragging behind her as her tethered breather tugged it along. Kylendris tried to push her away but she caught him by the wrist, his other arm forced into the mattress. Helpless, he felt her grab his crotch once more, her fingers stroking his cooperative length. Chariath removed the breather and grinned, her fangs stained red with his own blood, "I shall have you all to myself." He tried to roll away but she held him fast, letting go of his hand and gripping his face. "And this," she said, running her thumb over the dark serpent, "shall be our secret."


	5. Stage Fright

A cloying smell of steam and warm oil rose through a grated ceiling from the machine shops. Tech Priests by the dozens labored with their servitor companions underneath, on top, and inside the chassis of battleworn machines. Chimeras, Leman Russ tanks, Basilisks, any vehicle that could possibly be restored was put under the wrench. Those that couldn't were salvaged for parts, their insides gutted and splayed out on the garage floor like a butchery. Captain Victor Saunders gazed down from a catwalk, absently scuffing the greasy metal with his polished boots. His uniform was pressed and clean, a stark contrast to the grungy walls and corroding floor.

Without taking his eyes off the repair bays he grunted a stiff order, "Production report."

A female corporal beside him flipped through her clipboard, its white pages already smeared with grease, "Sir, seven Chimera chassis are due to be completed today; two Hellhounds, a Basilisk, and four transports. We're still having a hard time finding working Punisher cannons to finish the Leman Russ variants but the engines and coaxials are functional."

Victor shook his head in disappointment, "We need those Punisher cannons. What good is a tank without a main gun?"

"Most of the specialized components were buried in the explosion," she replied.

"What about Battle Cannons?"

The Corporal flipped a few pages back, pushing her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose with a finger, "We have… some of those. We could retrofit the tanks but it will take a few more days."

"Do it then, I'd rather have functional generic tanks than specialized broken ones."

"Yes, Captain." She began scribbling a note in the margin as Victor continued down the walkway, his boots clinking on the metal sheets. "Excuse me, sir? Can I ask you something?"

"What is it, Corporal?"

She fiddled with her bangs, pushing them aside as if trying to get a better look at him, "It's just that… well…"

"Out with it!"

The Corporal nearly dropped her clipboard as she staggered back, "Our um, production has nearly tripled since you took over the Company Command."

"I know that."

"I'm just… curious what the rush is. Our men are drilling every day now, the patrols have doubled, and scuttlebutt is you haven't spoken to Sergeant Cole in over a week."

Victor's expression grew stern, "This is what proper discipline looks like, Corporal. I'm not surprised it's new to you, no one on this Emperor-forsaken rock has seen much of it."

"Yes, sir," she said, almost whispering as she sank against the railing.

Looking away for a moment, the Captain sighed, clearly embarrassed with his own behavior, "I'm sorry, Sparky."

The Corporal approached him tentatively, "Are you alright, sir?"

"I'm fine, this position is just more stress than I bargained for."

"Sir, maybe you should talk to the Sergeant," she said. "You two used to get along so great."

"Cole and I have… different opinions now." Victor removed his hat and ran his fingers through his freshly graying hair, untangling the brown locks from their matted state.

Sparky gave a sad nod, "I understand…"

"Alex and I will be okay, I think we just need to give each other some space." He adjusted his hat and looked out over the work bays once more, "Now, get those orders down to the Tech Priests. I want those Russ tanks ready by the end of the week."

"Yes, sir," she said with a salute.

The Corporal turned on her heels and walked towards a staircase on the far side of the catwalk. Meanwhile, Victor continued to watch the commotion of the repair bays from above. Servitors cranked bolts and welded armor plates, and the room echoed with the murmurings of the Tech Priest's ancient rites, venerating the Machine Spirit as they toiled. Sparky was correct, their production improved dramatically after he took over. Their remote location and the fact that most of their docking bays were destroyed meant there was no way they could offload as many vehicles as they were recovering. This was just the situation he was betting on.

It had been several years since the explosion that destroyed the Necron base beneath their moon. Most of the Guardsmen XGN-T34-85 were never told what, why, or how it happened. Most chalked the explosion up to a massive reactor failure in one of the derelict vehicles, a not uncommon occurrence, though no one had ever seen a failure of that magnitude before. Even what Colonel Bradley and Commissar Jacobson knew wasn't the whole story. They were never told about the Eldar, about the dead Sisters, about the xenos ship floating above their world, silent and invisible, watching their every move. Only he, Alex, and the surviving members of Alpha squad knew the truth, and they dared not speak a word of it now. Yet they all knew they would see the deceptive Eldar again.

Victor strolled along the walkway, deep in thought. He was the one who led Alpha squad to safety and, officially at least, assisted the Inquisition in the destruction of the Necron base. For that he earned a promotion, while the rest of Alpha squad earned nothing but a stern debriefing. Alexander never forgave him for not coming to bat when he and his men insisted the Eldar were the true threat, but Victor knew better. All evidence of their meddling was destroyed in the explosion, and it was impossible to find their cloaked vessel with their installation's scanners. For now at least, it was better to simply go along with the official story and prepare for the worst. And so he ramped up production, increased training requirements, and forced an inspection regimen on every unit under his command. He did not know when the xenos would return to finish what they started, but he was going to make sure they would find an organized, prepared, and deadly wall of human armor when they did.

At the end of the catwalk, Victor came to a set of stairs leading down to a large guillotine door. Beyond that was the motorpool, where the restored vehicles were maintained or mothballed for transport offworld. The Tech Priests had already been through their morning inspection but Victor wanted to have a look at the vehicles himself, if nothing else to ease his mind. Climbing down the steep staircase, he pressed a switch on the wall and the blast door began to rise, revealing a parking lot full of newly restored war machines. Crews for several of them stowed their cargo and reviewed patrol orders, while Servitors meandered about, applying lubricants and checking coolant levels. For any full armored regiment this would be paltry, but for the 4063rd, this was the single largest collection of mobile armor they'd ever assembled.

Slabs of hardened armor rose around him as Victor strolled between the vehicles, admiring his purview. Most still held the battle wounds of previous fights; a pockmarked glacis or a mantlet still bearing the scars of a melta bomb. In his opinion it gave them a bit more character, they looked properly worn in, veterans of conflicts he could only imagine. The sight of so much human military power comforted him, at least a little. This was the strongest fighting force XGN-T34-85 had seen in decades, and it was now his to command.

As he took in the plethora of armored vehicles, Victor spotted a crew of one of the Leman Russ tanks busily painting the side of their turret. It wasn't unusual for tank crews to decorate or signify their tanks, in fact it made them easier to tell apart in the heat of battle. Curious to see what they were painting, he approached the tanks. The three Guardsmen immediately stopped what they were doing and gave a crisp salute without a word.

"At ease, men," he said, saluting them back. "What's this you're working on?"

"Sir, inscribing the holy scripture upon the vehicle for god's protection, sir!" the tank commander replied. His face had a plastic texture, in fact all three of them did. That along with their slightly oversized uniforms gave them an unnerving appearance, as though they were living wax dolls.

"Um, good," Victor replied. "I'm glad to see your devotion to—wait a minute." The Captain pushed the tank commander aside to get a better look at the inscription, "'I once shot a Tyranid in my pajamas'?"

The tank commander shrugged, "How he got in my pajamas, I'll never know."

Victor grabbed the Guardsman by the lapel and pointed at the nonsense writing, "What is the meaning of this!?"

Throwing his hands up defensively, the tank commander said, "Well, you know what they say, sir. Art is art."

"On the other hand," the gunner added, standing in the turret hatch, "water is water."

"And east is east," replied the commander, thumbing to the side.

The driver stood by her hatch, pointing frantically in the opposite direction and shaking her head.

"And if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like—"

Victor gave the rambling buffoon a hard shot in the ribs, "Silence!"

The tank commander fell to the ground, holding his side and groaning in pain, "Man down!" He rolled over on the floor with a grimace, "Is there a doctor in the house?"

"What house? We're in a tank," the gunner said.

"I don't care, I need medical attention!"

The driver reached inside the driving compartment and, inexplicably, pulled out a large fish. With exaggerated flourish she threw the dead animal on the tank commander, the impact making a loud, wet smack.

"OW!" he cried, "What is that?!"

"You said you wanted a doctor," the gunner replied, "So she got you a sturgeon."

"But that's a fish!"

"What did you expect?" the gunner scoffed. "It's a fish tank."

"ENOUGH!" At once, Victor threw his overcoat back, drew his laspistol, and fired a shot right next to the tank commander's head. The smoking hole in the rockcrete floor was less than an inch from the soldier's cheek and, seeing this, all three of them froze.

"Captain," the tank commander said in a much lower voice. "I recommend you put the firearm away."

Victor took a deep breath and pointed his laspistol at each of them in turn, "One more word and you three will be executed for insubordination."

"Insubordination is the best kind of subordination," the gunner said, climbing down from the turret.

"I think he means business," the tank commander added, sitting upright. "Alright, Captain, you win. The jig is up."

"Who are you," Victor demanded, "what's your serial number?"

"My name is Karl," he said. With a bow of his hand, he pointed to the other crewmen, "And these are my compatriots, Mitch and Moxy." The two Guardsmen gave a friendly wave.

"Liars," he said. "I've never seen those names on my reports before. You're not from this company, how did you get in here?"

The three tankers looked at one another. "We transferred," Karl said.

"From offworld," Mitch added.

Moxy nodded in agreement.

"One more lie," Victor said, pointing the gun at the driver's head, "And you're going to be transferred offworld permanently."

"Careful, Captain," Karl said, slowly rising to his feet. "That thing could go off. You might hurt someone."

Victor glared at him, swung his arm around, and pulled the trigger. In one swift motion the Guardsman ducked and thrust his hand forward. All Victor saw was a flash of red before he was knocked clean off his feet. Dazed, the Captain slowly cleared his vision to see all three tankers standing over him, shaking their waxy heads. Wrapped around Karl's wrist was a copper band attached to what appeared to be a giant boxing glove dangling on a spring.

"It's a good thing you had that set to stun," Mitch said.

Moxy gestured frantically from Victor to the flaccid boxing glove still bouncing back and forth, her face exasperated.

"I know, Moxy, but we need him," Karl said. He began winding the spring up and tucking it back inside a copper egg on his wrist.

"What… who are you…" Victor muttered incoherently, blood dribbling from his lips.

"Well…" Karl looked around with exaggerated suspicion, "I guess now's as good a time as any." With a graceful tug he pulled his fatigues off as if the fabric was made of tissue paper. His uniform gave way to a brightly checkered costume of blue and purple. Yellow ribbons fluttered by his legs and wrapped around his waist. Over this bright outfit, Karl wore an imposing leather coat complete with large lapels and fine embroidery. What grabbed Victor's attention the most however was the mad, leering Eldar mask that replaced the plasticy face of a human Guardsman.

"You… FOUL XENOS!" Victor cried, pulling himself upright.

"I believe he's caught on," Mitch said as he and Moxy disposed of their own disguises. Both of them wore the same checkered blue and purple as Karl, but their styles were entirely different. Mitch wore combat boots, purple and blue slacks, and a bullet belt across his broad chest. Tempering this masculine appearance, his porcelain mask was chiseled into a grim sneer. Moxy on the other hand wore long, black, thigh-high leather boots and a matching chestpiece, embroidered in the profane symbol of some Eldar rune. Her mask was feminine and delicate, and though its expression changed moment to moment, it always appeared slightly sad. All three of them had the same flowing mohawks sticking out of their costumes but didn't show so much as an inch of skin. Their entire bodies were covered in leather and the skin-tight checkered suits.

"Men, to arms!" Victor cried. "We're being invaded!"

"Relax, we mean you no real harm," Karl said. "Besides, your men cannot hear you anyway."

Victor looked around the garage. Armor crews were still seeing to their vehicles, apparently unable to hear his shouts. The sounds of their machines were soft and distant, and everything looked glazed over in a fog, as though whatever he wasn't focusing on ceased to exist a moment later. Bewildered by this dreamlike state, Victor's eyes slowly traced their way back to the mocking Eldar above him. His lips holding a bloody sneer, he said, "What's going on? What do you want?"

"To deliver a message," Karl said, offering him his hand.

Victor looked at it, then back to the xeno's face… or mask, "A message? What is it this time, more Necrons? Perhaps an entire invasion fleet is right under our noses now?"

Mitch opened his "mouth" as if to say something but Moxy threw her hands over his mask before he could.

"Are you going to blow up the whole damn moon this time, what is it!?" he insisted.

Retracting his hand, Karl withdrew a sealed scroll from his overcoat. With a flick of his wrist, the paper flamboyantly opened, the seal splitting cleanly down the middle. Donning a pair of rectangular glasses, he began to read aloud, "To the esteemed human, Captain Victor Saunders."

Victor pried himself up off the floor but didn't say anything, blood still dribbling from his nostrils.

"We, the Harlequins of the Stolen Night," Moxy and Mitch both posed behind the pontificating Eldar with flair, "have selected you to play a leading role in our next orchestration."

"You cannot be serious," Victor said, wiping his face.

Karl abruptly paused to glance at him over his spectacles, then returned to the paper, "This was a difficult decision, but your expert performance in assisting the Craftworld Ulthwé swayed us. The talent you displayed for not dying in spite of unfathomable odds is exemplary, but what truly impressed our producers and casting director was your devotion to common sense and restraint in not ordering your men to kill every Eldar on sight. It is our belief that these skills will both serve you well in the coming years."

"This is a joke, right?"

Karl lowered the paper and pointed at the Captain with his glasses, his mask's expression deadly serious, "Do I look like I am joking, Captain? Does any of this look like a joke to you?"

"Yes, it d—"

Mitch and Moxy both stepped beside him, "We had to learn to speak your mon-keigh language, sneak into your installation, and pretend to be human for _hours_ ," Mitch groaned. He fanned with his hands as Moxy swooned, a hand over her face, grimacing at the notion of carrying on her human charade for another minute. "This isn't a 'joke', you uncultured buffoon, this is _art._ "

"May I proceed?" Karl demanded.

Victor shrank from the two imposing Eldar flanking him without a word.

"Very well." Straightening the paper and returning his glasses to the bridge of his porcelain nose, he continued, "You and your men are to begin your roles immediately and, should you play your parts appropriately, will be rewarded with your lives."

Victor's attention snapped forward. "What do you mean, 'rewarded with our lives'?"

"It means you live," Karl said. "As opposed to the alternative."

"And what happens if we refuse?"

"The alternative."

"Which is?"

"We're all dead!" Karl crumpled up the paper and tossed away his spectacles.

"Wait wait…" Victor took a bewildered step back, "We're ALL dead?"

Karl laid out his hand one line at a time, "You, me, us, countless mon-keigh and Eldar, everyone."

"You're going to kill us all?" he gasped, "Even yourselves?!"

"We're not going to kill anyone," Mitch interjected. "Well, maybe a few."

Moxy tallied up a number on her fingers and showed Mitch.

"Hmm…" he said, looking at her, "Maybe a few…dozen."

"Captain, don't misunderstand," Karl said, stepping towards him. "Were it up to me, you and your men wouldn't be involved at all, believe me. The last thing we want is to rely upon your backwards species for anything."

"I find difficult to believe," Victor said, hatred seeping into his voice. "You Eldar singled us out before. You murdered our Inquisitors, bombed our installation, and now you're threatening an entire Imperial regiment!"

" _We_ did? No, Captain, we did not do anything, least of all threaten you. Other Eldar did, other Eldar with designs and fates of their own." His mask's expression morphed from a grim smile to a scowl. "All we want to do—"

"Silence!" Victor raised his pistol once more, "All filthy xeno lies! I'll die before I see my men caught in your deranged schemes again!"

Karl stood perfectly still and tilted his head towards the Captain. The shadows caught every line and crease in his mask, distorting his face into the visage of something hideous, almost demonic. Victor's hand began to tremble and dread clenched his heart. Not the adrenaline fueled fear of combat or the anxiety of command, but the cold and terrifying realization that the creature he dared to threaten was far more than he could imagine, and he wasn't joking anymore.

"Captain…" Karl's voice raked his nerves like razors down his back. The Eldar steepled his fingers and Victor felt his knees give out, buckling under his will, "It is not often I break character, but I will tell you this now, for your own good. If you do not play your part, billions will die, human and Eldar. Their lives will be on your head, and their fates will be worse than death. Their souls will experience horrors you cannot fathom." He stepped closer, the expression on his mask shifting with the light but the tone remaining clear. Victor's body went numb as though he were about to faint, but his eyes refused to close, remaining fixed on the Eldar. "And I promise you, so long as I still draw breath, so shall you. You shall hear every screaming voice crying for mercy, witness every murder until the gutters flow with blood, smell every burning city until the stench rots your nostrils, tally all the widows and orphans claimed by the winter's cold, and mourn each dead soldier fighting hopelessly to stop what you could have prevented." The Eldar stood so close Victor could feel his breath through the twisted mask, its eyes like black pits to his soul, "Now, are you prepared to take the stage?"


	6. The Prisoner

Stone and metal buildings jutted against one another, the old and new world aesthetics clashing to form the human city of El Valle. The cracks between them created narrow and winding streets, shaped over centuries by waves of building and rebuilding. Though far from the colossal spires of a hiveworld or the congestion of any advanced Imperial planet, the city still had a bustle all its own. Even with the humans quieted in their midday siesta, jokes, news, and restless gossip still flowed on the busy sidewalks, catching the ears of any who had the time to spare. Yes'ruch watched these creatures from her hiding place behind a row of stucco townhomes. They piqued her curiosity with their leisurely habits. Humans, in her experience, lived droll and joyless lives, the cogs of whatever lifeless administration or task they were assigned to. These however lived in a bright, vibrant world. The smell of good earth chased in the breeze, along with the scent of steel cut wheat from the sprawling fields outside the city walls. Of course, she thought, this was once an Eldar planet. Surely any prosperity these mon-keigh enjoyed was the product of her people's devotion to the world spirit. Still, there was a calm about this place, and she could not deny the humans were more or less capable in their gentle dominion over the land. She would almost be satisfied in studying them a bit longer were the winds of Fate not blowing through her mind.

Concealed beneath her shrouding cloak, Yes'ruch hugged the stock of her long rifle anxiously. It still bore the worn yellow and blue tinted resin of Iyanden, and though hundreds of years old, she trusted the craftsmanship with her life. Hopefully, she thought, she would never have to use it. Her mission here was not to harm the humans but to warn them of her vision. Not for their sake of course, but for her people. For Kaira. Any day now the Druchii would prey upon this city, sucking the ripe morsels of their souls and enslaving any they spared. And Palmarias, that brash and damnable fool, would lock her kin to the same horrid fate if she did not intervene. The humans would stand no chance, of course, even with her warning. Their forces could not hope to match the power of the Commorrites, but perhaps they might stall them long enough for her to talk some sense into Palmarias, or at least to warn Kaira of the impending betrayal.

Gradually moving herself from behind the brick wall of the homes, Yes'ruch turned the scope of her rifle towards the center of town. The Chapel of Saint Lucia shined like a jewel amongst the ramble of buildings that made up El Valle. Its spires were faint and delicate, but anchored to a stronghold foundation. Every carved stone and marble brick was inscribed with Imperial scripture, with additions made every year to remember those who served in the Order of the Sacred Rose, the Chapel's primary residents, caretakers, and defenders. The perimeter was patrolled regularly, with the Sisters taking shifts walking the exterior walls every hour, armed and in full, glistening power armor.

Yes'ruch adjusted her scope and bit her lip in thought. The wall itself was thirty feet high and lined with sensors, so climbing it would be nearly impossible to do without detection. She'd been staking out the human fane for three days now, taking mental notes of every activity that occurred, searching for any weakness she might be able to exploit. An Eldar speaking with the Sisters at the gate would incite a panic in the middle of the city, and she had no doubt she would never live long enough to see their leader, let alone warn her. So she plotted to break in, make for the convent's interior, and attempt to confront their "Canoness" in person, alone. And now, after days of careful observation, a plan was formulating in her mind. The interior was mostly unknown, but the rotation of the guards meant sneaking in was possible. At night, infrared sensors would likely be used, but during the daylight hours she could move through the gate unseen so long as her camouflage cloak—and her luck—held out. She zoomed the scope out, taking in the entire complex. In a few minutes the guards would change again, and it was early in the afternoon, the perfect time to make her move. All she had to do was wind her way through the city to the main ga—

Yes'ruch heard the click of a well oiled bolter action as a barrel pressed into the back of her head. Distracted, she failed to notice the quiet shuffle of boots behind her. "Xeno," she heard a woman's voice say with a soft, drawing accent, "drop the weapon, nice and easy."

With slow, deliberate movements, Yes'ruch lowered her rifle to the dusty ground. Damn, she thought, how could I have been so careless?

"That's real good," the human said. "Now, stand up and take that there cloak off so I can see what I'm dealin' with."

She did as she was told, lowering her hood gradually. A tight braid held her ebon hair and stuck to the sweat running down her back. In spite of her cloak, both her face and ears were bright red from sunburn. As she pulled the cloak away, cool air wafted through the thin clothing matted to her body. She felt disgusting. This planet was unusually hot, and she understood after only a day why the humans sought shade and rest in the early afternoon.

"Psh, another one," the human grunted.

"Human, I mean you no harm," she spoke slowly, dropping her cloak to the ground.

"Shut it, varmint. Yer under arrest," the human said, pulling her gun away from Yes'ruch's head. There was a rattle of steel before metal snapped against her wrists, locking them together behind her back.

"Please," she said calmly, trying to remain composed in the custody of such a brute, "I only wish to speak with your—"

"You have the right to remain silent," the human interrupted, wrapping a thick piece of cloth around her head. Before Yes'ruch could pull away, the cloth was tied tight behind her neck, gagging her. The mon-keigh threw a black bag over her head and added, "That should hold ya, at least until we get you to a holding cell and I can interrogate you nice'n proper."

Yes'ruch made a muffled grumble of protest which earned her a swift kick in the back, sending her stumbling in the direction of the cathedral. There was a shuffling behind her before a metal gauntlet grabbed her by the arm and forced her forward. Block after block she was pulled along, her sensitive hearing picking up every scandalous remark of the passersby. The human's accent made her sound even more dull than was typical, but her capture tactic was clever. The other humans wouldn't know she was an Eldar without seeing her face. At least, not unless they were psykers or particularly astute, the latter being a trait she never associated with the drudgery of human society.

When they approached what she assumed were the gates, a new female voice remarked, "Another one? Good hunting Sister!"

"Thank ya kindly," her captor responded, shoving Yes'ruch forward again.

"You would think they'd have learned by now," the gate guard said.

"You know what they say 'bout them Eldars," her captor sighed. "Always tryin' to pull a fast one but too dern proud to admit when they been outfoxed."

There was a beeping sound, like a scanner being run, as the guard asked, "Do you suppose there'll be any more?"

"Reckon," her captor stated. Yes'ruch felt a sharp pull again as she was led forward, into the courtyard.

"Emperor's blessings, Sister!" the guard shouted from behind.

"Emperor's blessings," she replied.

The heat of the sun gave way to cool shade as they stepped through the cathedral doors. Stonework floors and worn carpets were all she could make out as she walked around and down flights of stairs and long hallways. Yes'ruch tried to keep a map of her path in her head, but she was sure once or twice the human had dragged her around in circles just to throw her off. At last she was pushed inside a room and heard the latching of steel. Without warning the human kicked her down, knocking her to the cold stone floor. Planting one foot on her back, the brutish mon-keigh ripped the bag from her head.

"Now then," she said, forcing Yes'ruch into the hard blocks of granite. "If you wanna be civil, we can do this the easy way. But if yer figurin' on tryin' to act tough like your friends did, well," she dug her heel into Yes'ruch's spine, "we can do it that way too."

"AHH!" Yes'ruch gasped in pain through the gag and the boot lifted, only for a swift kick in the side to send her flopping on her back. She stared up, seeing her captor for the first time. She wore the power armor of the other Sisters, but otherwise appeared entirely different. Her skin was a deep tan, and her hair dark brown, as though she'd spent her life being baked in the sun. She carried her bolt pistol in a leather holster on her hip in easy reach, and a knife was strapped to the boot on her leg. All across her hips were satchels, grenades, and extra bolter rounds. Her shoulders and hips were broad, and she was as tall as a human male, perhaps even taller. She was, in all, rather imposing.

Reaching down, the Sister yanked the gag from her mouth, "Which'll it be?"

"Please…" Yes'ruch coughed, her tongue as dry as the dusty air, "I just want… to talk…"

A smile curled along her full lips, "Good." She stepped away and shoved a chair in her direction. Yes'ruch sat up, her back killing her from where the Sister's boot pressed, and looked around. There was a flimsy table in the middle of the cramped room and two wooden chairs. The only light came from a single lamp hanging over them, dimly lighting the surroundings. Nervously, Yes'ruch rose and took a seat on the chair as the Sister paced back and forth by the door. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a fresh cigar, its warm scent mixing with the smell of dry clay and her own stale sweat. Scratching a match on the door, she lit it, took a couple puffs, and stepped towards the table.

"Alright, xeno, what's yer name?" she asked, the lit cigar in her fingers.

"Yes'ruch," she said slowly.

"Yes-what now?"

"Yes'ruch, it is my given na—"

"I heard ya the first time," she interrupted.

Scowling, Yes'ruch responded, "And whom might I be speaking with?"

The Sister leaned on the table, a proud smirk on her face, "I am Veteran Retributor Superior Laura del Roccos de la Celestine Lucia de Catherine Cipriano."

Feigning impression, Yes'ruch nodded at the mon-keigh and whispered, "Oh, I see…" It was clear the human thought very highly of her lineage, and considering she was in her captivity, it behooved her to let the human think of herself as being in control. Although this turn of events was not ideal, Yes'ruch was inside the Cathedral and was now talking to a ranking member of the human military. This could turn out to be a happy accident.

"Now that the pleasantries are over," the Sister put her boot up on her chair and drew her knife. "How about you tell me what you and yer misbehavin' friends're up to."

"Friends?" Yes'ruch furrowed her brows, "Madam, I came with no friends. I merely wanted to speak with your leader, or with you, perhaps?"

"Sure ya did," she said, making a circle with the blade's edge in the air. "So start talking."

Yes'ruch leaned forward, her bound arms making her posture awkward, "I have come to deliver a warning. There is an invasion coming, one of fantastic magnitude that threatens to purge this entire planet if we do not intervene."

"You expect me to buy that bucket'a hogwash," she growled, whirling the knife in her fingers towards Yes'ruch's neck.

"I am selling no buckets or… hogswatch," Yes'ruch said, fumbling over the mon-keigh's bizarre vernacular.

The Sister chuckled, "You're a real bad liar, Sally."

"I am telling you the truth!"

"I know yer lyin' on accounna I got yer companions in the cell down the hall. Had to carve half a litany in 'em 'fore they'd stop slanderin' the Emperor, cept for that one bitch," she tapped her chin with the flat of the blade in thought, "had to sew that one's mouth shut myself."

Yes'ruch shook her head, "What companions? I know nothing of any others here besides you and your human kin."

"That dog won't hunt," she said, pointing the blade back in her face. "Now spill them beans 'fore I have to spill yer insides."

Yes'ruch swallowed hard as the blade grazed the skin on her neck, "Human, I am trying to warn you of an invasion. I came alone, what any other Eldar might be doing here, I do not know."

"Uh huh… and now why would you be wantin' to warn us?" She drew the blade closer, just breaking the skin.

"Because," Yes'ruch winced as her blood flowed down her neck, "the lives of my own people are at stake as well."

"And who might be invadin' us?"

Yes'ruch felt her composure beginning to slip. This human was so dense she could not see the danger fate brought right to her doorstep. Now she was threatening the only chance her kind might have of salvation. To make matters worse, the face of this human told her she was going to be gutted no matter what she said. With the steadiest voice she could muster, Yes'ruch spoke, "Eldar pirates…"

"Now ain't that funny," the human said, cocking her head slightly closer to Yes'ruch's face. Her dark brown hair wafted to the side and swung just inches from her nose, "Why would an Eldar be comin' here to warn us about their own invasion? You xenos don't make a lick a sense."

"These are not my people, human, but the corrupt and terrible kin my people tried to leave behind. They are raiders, murderers, and thieves."

The Sister looked her in the eye, then withdrew her knife, "Sally, I've heard some tall tales in my time but I'll be doggoned if you ain't told the worst of 'em."

"I speak the truth," she insisted. "Why would I lie of such things?"

"Why's water wet?" she said sarcastically. "Why's the grass green? Why do Eldar lie?"

Anger slipped into her tone, and Yes'ruch felt the warp begin to flow through her body, "Human, if you and your people do not prepare this entire world is going to be consumed."

"Sally, why in Holy Terra would your people wanna spend all that time an' effort takin' over a farming world? We got nothin' but cows and corn here."

"I… I do not know. But I do know such plans are in motion."

"Uh-huh. Well, while yer figurin' it out, how about I show you to yer new home."

The Sister grabbed Yes'ruch by the arm and lifted her out of her seat. Throwing the door latch, the two of them entered into a wide hallway. Each side was lined with barred cells, most of which were empty save for a few shriveled and decrepit human prisoners. Helmed Sisters patrolled back and forth in black armor with flamers in their hands, ready to immolate any who stepped out of line. As they approached the end of the hall, the Retributor opened a cell door and threw her inside, slamming the bars behind her. The cell was small, with nothing but a toilet, sink, and metal cot inside. Yes'ruch caught the pained breathing of another nearby and looked around. Across the hall, a small group of Eldar were chained, naked and bleeding, to the cell walls. Most of them were still alive, though their skin was thoroughly defiled with the mon-keigh's scripture carved in their flesh. One of them, a female, looked like she received the worst of it, with her mouth and eyes sown shut. She instinctually reached out to touch their mind, but found no psychic response, their spirits closed to her.

"Druchii…" Yes'ruch muttered.

The Sister rested her hand on her holster, "I'm just gonna let you set a spell and think about what yer lyin' is gonna getcha if you don't come clean. Maybe seein' yer pals over there will jog your memory."

"Retributor, please," Yes'ruch stood and approached the bars.

"That's Retributor Superior."

"Retributor Superior," she said, her voice wavering from anger and exasperation, "Please listen to me. You and your entire planet are in peril."

She shook her head, "You just don't get it, do you?"

"What is it, then?" Yes'ruch insisted, struggling against the irons holding her wrists, "What do I not understand?"

The human smirked again, "I dun captured you while you were busy playing with that fancy pea-shooter you call a rifle." She took another puff from her cigar, and motioned to the cell behind her, "And I captured that bunch'a loud-mouths single-handed."

"What is your point?"

"I ain't afraid'a you." She tapped the ashes from her cigar onto the floor and kicked them about with her boot, "Yer about as wet behind the ears as they get. Makes sense I guess, considering how long they are. Even if yer kind did have some kinda invasion planned, chances are it'd go upside down mighty quick."

Yes'ruch stared at her with disbelief, "You truly do not comprehend the danger that is but a breath away from snuffing the life from this world. Those… vagabonds you captured are nothing."

"You can say that again."

She slammed her foot into the bars, her hands clenched with rage inside her manacles, "You ignorant cretin! I came here to warn you, to prevent the horrors of war from destroying your home as they have mine. Have you not even the wit to save yourself?"

With practiced reflexes the Sister drew her bolt pistol with one hand, the cigar still hanging in the other, "You watch yer tone 'fore I blow yer lyin' head off."

Yes'ruch took a step back, her breathing heavy. The Druchii across from them looked up and smiled at her boiling anger, their wounds soothing as they drank in her rage. Her glowering eyes pierced the Retributor's own as she fought the cascade of psychic energy storming in her mind. "Human, I have walked among your people. I have seen their smiling homes and their pleasant fields. I have felt the earth beneath my feet and the pounding sunlight upon my back. You have much worth protecting on this planet."

The Sister's expression softened a bit as she raised the cigar to her lips.

"But in my dreams I have also seen the raiders feasting upon the blood and terror of your kind. Where the sun was blotted out for the thickness of their numbers, and the shrieks of their engines deafened by the pleading cries for mercy."

"I don't believe—"

"Human woman stripped from their homes by the clutching hands of defilers. Your protectors boiled in their own skin by virulent poisons. Children rounded up like cattle, branded, and enslaved. Monsters sculpted from flesh devouring their victims alive. Fiends, born of shadows and nightmares themselves slithering amongst your kind and dragging them to a realm of silence and darkness."

The human squeezed the trigger, her bolt pistol's report echoing over her cry, "CEASE!"

The shell clipped her ear and exploded against the wall behind her, sending dust and brickwork flying around the cell. Yes'ruch stumbled forward and slammed into the metal bars before crumpling to the ground. She raised her head and saw the sweat on her matted hair mixing with the blood freely dripping from her wound. The jailors patrolling the room ran towards their Sister to see what the commotion was, but the frazzled Retributor waved them away.

"It's nothin'," she said as they readied their flamers to purge the cell, "just puttin' another one of these damn xenos in their place."

"Are you sure you do not want us to cleanse her, my Sister?" one of them asked.

She looked down at Yes'ruch for a moment, "No, don't go doin' that just yet. This one's talkin', unlike the others. She might still be useful."

The guards looked down at her again and reluctantly pulled their weapons back, the smell of their pilot lights hanging in the air. "By your word."

The Retributor shoved her bolt pistol into its holster and backed away from the cell without a word. She watched as Yes'ruch laid there, bound and wounded, huddled next to the bars. The blood from her ear mixed with the tears now dripping from her eyes. Confusion was carved into her expression, the same witless look the humans always had when confronted with the weight of reality.

Yes'ruch moaned in pain, both physical and spiritual. Her efforts were in vain, and her vision, a useless gesture, a trick played upon her by the Laughing God himself. Nothing she could say would get through to these petulant mon-keigh. Weak sobbing forced its way past her lips as she curled beneath the shadow of the human jail, "I'm sorry, Kaira…" she whispered in her Eldar tongue. "I tried…"


	7. Calm Before the Storm

Oil slithered along the ground, flowing into runoff channels and pooling under stacks of broken machines. Rolling treads crushed an engine block beneath their drive wheels as a Leman Russ lumbered further into the decrepit metal catacombs. The ordinarily pitch black tunnels were flooded with the searchlights of dozens of Imperial war machines following one another in a single file line. Some were fully restored to their combat-ready glory, others were in varying stages of disrepair, with the most derelict bringing up the rear, their engines being about the only thing working in the entire vehicle. The formation moved deeper into the underground junkyard, their combined engines and clattering treads rumbling the ground and shaking debris from high stacks of metal all around.

Leading the formation was a battle tank commanded by Captain Victor Saunders himself. Sergeant Alexander Cole, his second in command and at one point his closest friend, sat on top of the tank in silence, watching the darkness as it peeled away from the advancing column's lights. Saunders stood from the hatch, his hands on the searchlight, occasionally kicking the driver in the shoulder when a left or right turn was deemed necessary. The Sergeant fidgeted with his lasgun's carrying strap anxiously. He had gone with the Captain on more endurance tests than he could count and they never used this many vehicles before, nor had the Captain ever insisted on bringing any vehicles unfit for combat roles. Furthermore, they were easily four hours out from base at this point with no sign yet of turning around. Something was seriously wrong, he could feel it in his gut, and his instincts were always right.

"You're awfully quiet today, Sergeant," Captain Saunders shouted over the noise while not turning away from the searchlight.

"Not much to say, sir," he replied tersely. There was a whisper in his mind, like scraps of voices talking over one another in some language he couldn't understand. He remembered it from the Eldar the last time they appeared on this moon. It was always a suspicion of his that they were still running around in these tunnels, waiting for a chance to finish off Imperial soldiers trapped underground like moles. Now he was sure of it. He was also sure the Captain was keeping him in the dark about the real reason they were performing this test, and the two seemed a little too coincidental for his tastes.

"I suppose there isn't," the Captain replied. He glanced at a dataslate in his hand then kicked the driver on the shoulder. The tank veered left down a tunnel and the formation followed suit. The caverns were becoming tighter now and the engine noise grew from a constant rumble to a reverberating roar.

Sergeant Cole tapped the Captain on the shoulder and he leaned back to lend an ear. "I can sense the Eldar, Vic!" he shouted.

The Captain gave him a strange look, then shouted back, "I figured you would!"

"You can't hide that kinda thing from me, you know that! Why are we out here!?" he demanded. The Captain leaned forward, pretending not to hear, but the Sergeant grabbed his shoulder and dragged him backwards.

Saunders shook himself free, "I can't tell you that!"

"You tell me, or I'm stopping this convoy!"

"You don't have the authority, Sergeant!" the Captain growled.

"Wanna try me!?" Cole gestured to the Chimera following behind them, "You might wear the bars, but who do you think the men trust more in these tunnels, you or me!?"

Saunders looked back at the stream of vehicles blindly following them and said nothing.

"Why do you think you're even in command!? It's because of me, Vic! I keep them in line, not you!"

"That's a low blow!" the Captain said.

"It's the truth!" Victor turned away but Alex yanked his shoulder again, "Now, why are we in these caverns!? And why did we bring vehicles that can barely drive!?"

Victor shook his head, "I can't tell you, Alex! You're just gonna have to trust me!"

"You wore out trust years ago," he said. It stung to say those words. Deep inside, Victor was still his friend, but the years since the Eldar invasion had made the two of them distant and their relationship cold. As the Captain's eyes lowered, Alex could tell it hurt Victor as well.

"I guess I did," the Captain responded.

"So out with it!"

Victor locked the searchlight ahead of the vehicle and turned around to face his Sergeant. "We're going to a rendezvous, to prepare for a battle."

"Against the Eldar?" Cole demanded.

"Yes, to defend an Imperial city."

Sergeant Cole looked around for a moment, confused, "An Imperial _city!?_ Captain, are we going to get there!? We have no ships!"

"I have no idea," he said.

"What!?" Cole felt the murmuring in his mind grow stronger and his teeth clenched, "Vic, are you working WITH the Eldar!?"

Victor shook his head, "It's complicated. This is why I didn't tell you, Sergeant. The less everyone knows now, the better."

"You bastard!" He shoved the Captain into the spotlight. His head smacked the metal and began bleeding from his eyebrow, but Captain Saunders merely readjusted his hat and stared the Sergeant down. "How can you trust the xenos after what they did to us, to our base!?"

"I have no choice, Alex!"

"You're a damn traitor!"

A voice resonated in their minds, strong and clear, forcing itself to the forefront of their consciousness, _"Now children, behave or I'll turn this tank around!"_

Victor held his head, woozy from the psychic communication. Alex looked down the hatch to see the loader staring at them, his face smiling unnaturally, wider and wider. In a moment the disguise faded entirely, revealing a porcelain mask with pointed ears and a disgusting grin.

"What in the Emperor's name…" Alex said, his hands reaching for his lasgun.

" _Do not be so hasty, Sergeant,"_ the voice said. _"After all, we have an agreement with your Captain."_

"I got your agreement right here," he shouted, pointing the muzzle of the gun down the hatch. A lash of psychic energy kicked his head and he fell backwards, his gun falling from his hands and clattering behind the tank.

" _Sergeant,"_ the voice was overbearing, _"You might be considered a warrior and a psyker amongst your kind, but do not think some parlor tricks and a steady aim will let you trifle with us."_

"I'm… no bloody psyker…" Alex whispered to himself, pulling himself upright.

" _Of course you are,"_ the voice in his throbbing head spoke softly now, gently. _"I know about your misgivings towards us, and I assure you the feeling is mutual, but this theatre is too important to give in to squabbling. Both our kind lost our lives in these caverns fighting a common enemy, and in this coming pageantry, we shall again."_

"You monsters…" he cried, peering down into the hull, "Where are you leading us!? What are you using us for!?"

" _To a human world that was once ours, and shall be again."_ The masked xeno chuckled, _"And you are here to save as many lives as you can."_

Alex furrowed his brows, "Why would an Eldar want to save human lives!?"

" _Not just human lives, of course. The fates of so many of our kind are intertwined, to explain would be to untangle a knot centuries in the making. Besides,"_ the Eldar returned to his munitions, _"that would be giving away the best part, and what fun is that?"_

The Sergeant's eyes narrowed as he anxiously licked his teeth. These xenos were once again playing them for fools and he would have no part in it. Still, if the Eldar managed to infiltrate the command tank, how many more could be lurking in the rest of the formation? Just how far had Captain Saunder's loyalty slid? As he ruminated on this, the Captain raised his hand and the tank slowed, halting the formation. Unlocking the spotlight, he waved it over the empty passageway. In the distance they could see the structural damage caused by a plasma charge explosion, a reminder of the last time the Eldar graced their presence.

"Why are we stopping, what's going on?" the Sergeant demanded.

The Eldar voice spoke in his mind, _"Break a leg, Sergeant, it is almost time for your act!"_

Sparks lit from the debris surrounding them, the tendrils of electricity swirling and amassing into a hazy storm in the middle of the tunnel. In moments the entire length of the structure appeared to be engulfed in this clouded electrical storm, its structure conforming to the shape of the tunnel itself. The tank began rolling forward again, with the rest of the column tentatively following. Whatever was happening, the Captain seemed baffled. Victor removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, his jaw agape. Alex too was confused but at the same time distraught. There was a pressure on his mind, as if a great weight of emotion were being suspended by a tissue thin veil.

As the vehicles moved forward through the storm, an image formed in the distance of vast fields of wheat and corn under a golden sun. Dry midday air whipped through the tunnel and Alex caught the scent of warm earth. The sensation struck him as he realized he hadn't smelled true nature since he was a child. As the tanks moved onwards the setting grew clearer, and suddenly they found themselves rolling over knee-high corn stalks. The sunlight pierced the cloudy electrical storm that surrounded them until it dispersed entirely. Shielding his ruined eyes from the glare, it was all he could do to peer through the slit between his fingers. As far as he could see were rows and rows of crops, punctuated by the occasional building. In the distance was a city, its spires hanging in the horizon like a glimmering beacon.

Alex looked back and saw every hatch open, the soldiers inside awed at what they beheld. It was sunlight, real, natural sunlight, the first some of them had ever seen it in their lives. Many of them came from hive cities where the pollution was so thick the sun was never seen, and those that didn't were either born on XGN-T34-85 or were, like himself, recruited from a young age. Grown men in full battle gear tentatively climbed from the hatches, each holding their eyes from the brightness. Some clambered onto the ground, picking the growing corn stalks and feeling the leaves, wondering what they were. A few were even afraid of them, refusing to step off their Chimeras, lest the plants be poisonous or worse.

Cole's eyes adjusted and he felt a tightness in his chest. The caress of the wind, the smell of the earth, the rustle of the stalks in the breeze, this was all too much for a man confined to artificial light, cold tunnels, and recycled air. He looked at Victor who stared slack-jawed at the endless horizon.

"What witchcraft is this…" Victor murmured, clenching the side of the tank as he gazed at the blue sky. "Where have you taken us?"

" _The City of El Valle,"_ the phantasmal voice came again, _"At least that is what you humans call it."_

"And what do the Eldar call it?" Alex said, his response not as terse as he intended as he fawned over the landscape.

" _A blight."_

Both Alex and Victor snapped back to their senses enough to glare down the hatch. The xeno merely stared back at them, his mask conveying all the snide condescension he needed.

"You'll eat those words, Eldar," Victor said.

" _We shall see, and what luck, for you will soon have your chance,_ " he responded gleefully, bounding out the side hatch of the tank. _"Our rendezvous approaches!"_

Alex looked up and, as they approached, even the soldiers behind them stopped gawking over the plantlife long enough to realize what was moving towards them. Dozens of Eldar vehicles, their hulls splashed in green, and white, black and red, hovered soundlessly towards them from seemingly nowhere. More appeared in the foreground, their hulls appearing to materialize out of thin air. Next came artillery guns, their silhouettes popping into existence just a hundred feet away with a full contingent of crewmen. The Captain reached for his sidearm but froze as half a dozen squads of xenos soldiers appeared and surrounded his idle tank column with strange weapons held at the ready.

"Looks familiar, doesn't it, Vic?" Alex murmured with contempt.

Victor glared at the myriad xenos weapons pointed at him and his men, their conical helmets disguising any expression. He felt a burning in his chest, the urge to do something drastic, but between the Eldar surrounding him and those in amongst his own ranks, he knew it would be every bit as futile as resisting in his own motor pool, or in the tunnels against the Necrons, or in the Ecclesiarical ship, or any other point at which he might have acted drastically. He was not a man of action, he thought woefully, he was an easily manipulated coward, and more of his men were going to die for his mistakes this day.

Two formations of elite Eldar warriors closed in on the command tank, pressing their way through the rank and file Eldar soldiers. One group of them appeared to be entirely female, with bone-white armor and blades that dazzled the eyes with every motion. The others were like those he saw in the tunnels years before, but more rigid, with opulent blue armor and rising, crested helms. One by one, each of these warriors stepped aside for what appeared to be their respective superiors. A formidable Eldar in green plate from head to foot stepped forward from amongst the females, while the other one looked familiar, wearing black and bone robes, and the familiar golden eye etched on his helmet.

"Human Captain, human Sergeant," Karl said, his voice brimming and rolling over the words as his companions bailed out of the tank to join him, "Please give a warm round of applause for your new co-stars!"

Mitch gave a long whistle between his fingers as Moxy pranced around, clapping like a maniac.

The heavily armored Eldar shot Karl a look, and Alex felt a bitter sting in his gut.

"Oh come off it, Iron Man!" Karl shouted, "You're no fun anymore!"

The robed Eldar shook his head, then turned back to the command tank. "Humans, it has been quite a while," he said, his gothic accented strangely. "The last I remember, you were adorning the heel of my boot aboard my war vessel."

"You…" Alex said, standing on top of the Leman Russ turret. "I killed you. I shot you and you bled out on our own damn ship!"

"No, I am afraid you have me mistaken for my contemporary," the Eldar said, almost amused. "Allow me to give a more... formal introduction." He tilted his head slightly towards the clowns, their ghoulish masks making them look terribly out of place in their Imperial fatigues. "My name is Emerseth, Warlock of the Council of Ulthwé. I am the one who returned you home at the request of one of our wayward Guardians, a decision I only now begin not to regret."

"You spoil these mon-keigh peasants with your indulgence, Emerseth," the armored Eldar said aloud, his deep voice carrying with it a sense of disinterest.

"And who the hell are you?" Alex demanded.

In a flash the ten bone-armored warrior women that surrounded him leapt forth and bared their swords at the offending Sergeant, his neck and shoulders touched by their slender blades faster than he could blink. A wave of the armored figure's hand dismissed them and, slowly, the females returned to his side, with not a single one taking their eyes off of him.

The warrior Eldar flung his thick, white cloak into the breeze that wafted over the cornstalks. "I must caution you against such outbursts, humans. My dear Angels are quite defensive when around aliens."

"This, humans," Emerseth said, gesturing towards the imposing Eldar, "Is the Autarch of the 1st Biel-Tan Armor Division and Director of the United Swordwind Academy Men's Chorus, Vice-Brigadier Sir Allison 'Iron Man' Concord."

The Autarch bowed graciously to his companion, "You honor me, old friend."

Captain Saunders adjusted his cap, "Yes, well, I am-"

Sir Allison raised his hand, "I am already familiar with the likes of you. Emerseth has been quite thorough in his debriefing of the situation as well as your… altercation on the moon."

"What situation!?" Alex demanded, frustration seething through his voice as he waved his arm over the horizon. "We haven't been told a damn thing about any of this!"

"We told you that you would be defending this planet from the evil clutches of our merciless brethren," Karl said, his voice ringing and chilling in equal measure. "We never said you would be forced to go it alone."

Sir Allison balked, "Personally, I do not see what difference a paltry gaggle of humans and their derelict war machines will make. I alone could hold this planet with only a trifle of my forces."

" _There is a reason for everything, Sir Allison,"_ a voice rang in their heads, playful yet full of determination. Like wisp of smoke, an Eldar in gaudy checkers and carrying a long cane appeared, strolling through the ranks of xenos warriors to join them.

"Carlin!" Karl called out.

" _I see you have brought the humans, just as I asked,"_ the newcomer said. _"I am proud of you three."_

Alex tried to look at its mask but every time he did his head began to swim, like he was being held underwater upsidedown. Every image his mask formed seemed to smudge and blur away, and it was impossible for the eyes to follow. Woozy, he fell backwards, thumping onto the back of the tank.

"Alex!" Victor said, scrambling to his side.

" _Oh dear,"_ the strange Eldar said, moving closer to the command tank, _"I am afraid your friend might want to keep his spirit sight closed when looking to me."_

Victor sat by his comrade as Alex rolled back and forth, muttering about a headache and holding his head in pain. "Alex… you really are a psyker…"

" _Of course he is."_

I mean… I'd guessed he was sensitive, sure. I just never knew he was this…" his voice trailed off, mildly terrified at the thought of his old friend being a heretical witch all this time.

" _His powers are growing in our presence, we psykers are attuned to one another."_

Emerseth nodded in agreement, "This could be a dangerous time for him, especially so untrained. I suggest we set about our business lest something unfortunate happen."

"What do you mean 'unfortunate'?" Victor shouted, "What are you doing to my friend!?"

"Nothing you need worry about, Captain," Karl chimed in. "I assure you, your friend is perfectly safe so long as you do your part." He gestured towards the city in the background with a dramatic pose, "Now, onwards! Let us prepare for our curtain call!"

"It is about time," Sir Allison said. With a wave of his hand, every Eldar soldier under his command fell into orderly ranks and began marching towards the city of El Valle. Emerseth and his soldiers joined him, but as Karl and his companions began to strut away, Victor called out.

"Halt!"

"Come come, Captain, we must not fall behind," Karl insisted.

The Captain stood on the turret, his laspistol gripped firmly in his hand, "Alex is sick, and I cannot man this tank alone."

"Oh come now, Captain we must-"

Victor raised his pistol, "You're the ones who did this to him, and I'm not letting you out of my sight, understand? You said if I do my part that we're making it out of here alive. I've had enough of your Eldar lies, so you're gonna get in this tank with me."

"Human, do not test me," Karl said, his voice lowering.

Victor fired his pistol, the shot just missing Karl's flamboyant mohawk, "There's nothing to be afraid of, right Karl?" Victor said, lining up another shot. "Don't worry, I'll play my part."

Karl's mask sank into a glare while Mitch drew his pistol, making an intimidating show of unlocking its action. Moxy, however, made a few gestures towards the tank, then back at Karl.

"What?! I can't believe you," Karl replied.

Snubbing her nose at him, and much to Victor's befuddlement, Moxy strutted towards the command tank and hopped in the driver's seat.

"What are you doing, Moxy?!" Mitch demanded.

She didn't respond, at least not as far as Victor could tell. Instead she started the tank engine and began to roll out after the small Eldar army before them.

Victor grabbed the headset from the turret, "All vehicles, on my six, move out!"

The dozens of vehicles behind them sputtered to life with varying levels of success. Some were unable to get started, or worse, Victor thought, perhaps refused to follow him. Nevertheless, the column once again reformed and most of the tanks were en-route to El Valle. Karl and Mitch ran to keep pace, shouting at Moxy in a language he couldn't understand, with her gesturing rudely back and forth. Eventually though, both leaped between the treads and tumbled inside the central compartment of the tank, begrudgingly taking their respective gunnery stations.

"Good to have you aboard," Victor shouted sarcastically over the engine noise.

Moxy gave a thumbs up, but the other two Eldar didn't respond. Their morose expressions however told him all he needed to know.

* * *

Sunlight glared through the barred window, streaking the hallway of the human jail with lines of shadow and light exaggerated across the cracked stone floor. Every fifteen minutes the clomping of armored boots strutted their way up and down like clockwork, the guards as routine as they were absolutely intolerant. Every time Yes'ruch asked them a question it was met with an order to remain silent, and any further protests resulted in a violent jab with a bolter or fist. Swollen lumps and darkening bruises covered her body after countless attempts to beg an audience with anyone who might be able to effect some kind of action against the catastrophe that was just over the horizon.

In spite of this, her sentence might have been almost tolerable were it not for the constant, dragging, unrelenting heat of the place. The ventilation in the jail was poor, meaning the dry and stale air hung like so much dust drifting through the beams of light beyond her cell door. During the day the sun baked the brickwork walls, and during the night they radiated the heat, so there was never a reprieve. Between the beatings for speaking out, the heat, and the overwhelming sense of dread for the future, Yes'ruch had withdrawn almost entirely.

Half-naked and half-starved, the Eldar lay sprawled on her jail cot. She felt the sweat rolling down the small of her back, and her matted hair was by now almost permanently stuck to her skin. Staring at the ceiling, she heard her fellow prisoners grumbling on their own side of the jail. Sparing only the slightest amount of energy, she tilted her head to look at them. The woman was still tied down, and her companions, for all the energy they had left, might as well have been. Their skin was wrinkled and slack, and their voices rasped. If they didn't feed on strong emotions soon their souls may very well be plucked right from their still beating hearts. Sadly for them, emotions beyond boredom and crippling self doubt were absent from this place. The guards had learned quickly to stop responding whenever they acted out on purpose, as they tended to enjoy the retaliatory beatings.

Yes'ruch reached up and touched her spirit stone with a hint of relief. The humans thankfully allowed her to continue wearing it in spite of her incarceration. Due to its near ubiquity among her race, these humans assumed it a kind of identification, like how their own soldiers wear tags. She did not argue the point, anything that allowed her to continue to wear it was a welcome enough explanation. Glancing a bit further, Yes'ruch eyed the sink in her cell. She was thirsty, but the effort of moving from the cot to the water seemed gargantuan in this heat. Rolling over, the fabric of her remaining clothing stuck to her legs and peeled off with a disgusting sensation.

The door at the back of the jail slammed shut and Yes'ruch immediately sat bolt upright. It was not time for the guards to do their rounds yet, something was going on. The clomp of hurried boots came closer and closer as she spared another glance at the _Druchii_ across from her. They looked as if they could not care less, their sunken eyes drained of any life. Finally, the Retributor Superior emerged in front of her cell, the sturdy and imposing woman casting a shadow across most of the enclosure with her full power armor. She had bolter rounds slung across her chest several times over, and in her arms she held a massive heavy bolter.

"Sally, you and I are gonna have a little chat," she said, her voice betraying concern.

Yes'ruch scooched away from the cell door at the sight of the woman in such violent attire. "A-about what?"

The human lowered the gun and rolled her shoulders, "About that invasion nonsense you been spoutin'."

"I have told you all I can," Yes'ruch said slowly. "You still choose not to believe me."

"Yeah, well, about that," she said, glancing out the window. "We got whatcha might call a new development."

Yes'ruch raised an eyebrow but continued to crawl further back on her cot.

"We got about a… about ten dozen Eldar war machines outside with about a hundred Imperial Guard tanks with them?" The statement came out more as a question as her voice quiverred. "At first I thought they _were_ the invasion but they just uh… wanted to talk. They say they're here to help us defend against the real McCoy."

Yes'ruch's eyes lit up, "Eldar are here? Is it Emerseth? Kaira? Did they heed me!?"

"That uh, one of those names rings a bell, yeah."

"Oh, thank the gods!" she cried.

Retributor Superior Laura fired a heavy bolter round that pulverized a section of the wall, "I ain't havin' no heresy in my jail!"

"A… apologies," Yes'ruch said, the dust sticking to her sweat-drenched skin.

"Now, our scanners show no ship activity anywhere near the planet in the past several days," the Retribuor continued. "So either they been hiding here for a while or they done snuck in somehow."

"Wait, you mentioned humans arrived too. Did you not beckon help?"

"No, you cowpoke, I just told you I have no idea how they got here."

"So… what are they doing here?"

The Retributor Superior flexed her hands on the grip of her heavy bolter, "That's just it, I spoke with their Captain outside the city gates. He started givin' me the same hogwash you were about an Eldar invasion, and coming here with the others to help stop it."

Yes'ruch's brows furrowed, "That… that makes no sense. How could any other humans possibly know about my vision? Could Emerseth have brought them?"

"Dunno." She spat on the floor in disgust, "Nothin' about any of this makes any sense at-tall. All I know is we got xenos captives to deal with, Guard and Eldar armies showin' up outta thin air, and a whole lotta talk about an invasion comin' our way." The Retributor Superior raised her heavy bolter in menacing desperation. "Sally, give it to me straight. What's going on here!?"

Yes'ruch curled in her corner as the human brandished the weapon. The barrel was big enough to stick her fist into and Yes'ruch had no doubt she intended to use it again. "It is simply as I said, more Eldar are coming to ransack this planet," she said quickly. "Our kind know them as _Druchii_ , our dark kin, like the ones you have imprisoned in the other cell."

The Sister turned to look at the decrepit Eldar behind her. "What's the difference between y'all, anyhow? How come these ones 're lookin' like dried fruit but you ain't?"

"The _Druchii_ are cursed and must feed on emotion. Pain, terror, sorrow, it is what nourishes them, gives them life. Without it, their souls wither and die."

Her head whipped around, "And _they're_ the ones lookin' to invade us?!"

"That is correct, likely for that very reason."

"That…" she furrowed her brows at the half-dead Eldar in the other cell, "That ain't good."

"There is a reason I warned Emerseth. That he heeded my call… is a miracle."

"Yeah, well we'll be needin' quite a few more of those if this invasion thing pans out."

Yes'ruch tentatively stood up, "Please tell me you will accept my help now."

The Retributor Superior gave her a cautious look, "Just one thing… why are you so interested in helping us?"

She lowered her head a bit, "In my vision… I saw my friend die. She will be here, on this battlefield, and I must protect her from this fate." Yes'ruch glanced up to the Retributor, "That is truly why I came to warn you."

The Retributor scowled, "Figures you Eldar'd only be in it for yerselves."

"Would you trust any other answer I would give you?"

"Can't say I would…" she said, her voice trailing off. Leaning her heavy bolter against the ground, the human ungloved her palm and pressed her hand against a panel by the door. The bars unlatched and she pulled them open. Yes'ruch quickly glanced from the door to her captor as she put her gauntlet back on, but did not move.

"Okay, Sally, you're coming with me."

"W-what do you intend to do?" Yes'ruch replied, still not leaving her cot.

The Retributor Superior raised her heavy bolter again, "You and me are gonna have ourselves a little talk about what exactly is gonna happen with this here invasion. Now move!"

Timidly, Yes'ruch walked past the Sister and started down the hallway. She was not chained, but a lack of food, frequent beatings, and the wearing heat had sapped any energy she might have had to escape. Besides, where could she escape to? The entire building was filled with these warrior women. After just a short walk, Yes'ruch found herself in the main hall of the human fane, its vaulted ceiling intricately painted with the grotesque imagery the Imperium was known for. With a scowl she looked it over, still marching through the hall, with each human soldier and priestess cursing as she neared. Approaching a door by an alter, the Retributor Superior pressed her hand against a plate again and forced her inside.

The chamber appeared to be a small war room. Two dozen Sisters, fully armored and with bolters strapped across their backs worked at holographic projections. Everything from the solar system to the planet's major population centers were mapped and being monitored. Yes'ruch thought it a shame none of it would help aid against the _Druchii_ forces, Commorrites did not travel through space as the humans expected. At the far end of the room, the Retributor Superior presented to her a projection of the city and its outlying terrain. Troop movements and stations were visible, with most of the mechanized forces having been mobilized already.

"Take a seat," she said, pushing a stool towards her. Yes'ruch sat down, the Retributor Superior still standing behind her, wielding that massive weapon. "Alright, xeno. Since you know how this invasion's takin' place, how about a little insight. Where's it gonna be comin' from?"

"From the sprawls of the webway, where their kind flourish," she replied.

"And what exactly is this here 'webway' thing?"

Yes'ruch gave her a look of befuddlement as she struggled to comprehend how she might explain such a thing to so feeble a mind. "It is… a… dimension in which our kind travel."

"So Warp travel then?"

"No," she said flatly.

"Look, Sally," the Retributor said, her tone getting more frustrated, "if I was defending against an attack coming from this here 'webway' thing, where would I deploy my troops?"

Yes'ruch bit her lip. This is what she was waiting for, what she came for all this time ago. She finally had a chance to speak with someone about the coming invasion, someone who might actually be able to do something about it. But now that she was here, any advice she thought she might be able to give vanished from her mind. How could one defend themselves from an attack on all sides? What good does a warning do if no precautions could be taken? What was her reason for even being here?

"Well?" the Retributor demanded.

Yes'ruch stared at the map. Eldar and human artillery was placed high on the cliffs overlooking the city, both the ornate vehicles of their church and the shambling brutes of the human guard. Dozens vehicles were stationed along the perimeter, with strong tanks and lines of soldiers in entrenched positions. None of this would help however from an enemy that could appear anywhere, at any time. No cannon, however powerful, could damage that which it could neither see nor hit. The blindingly fast raiders would reduce such paltry defenses to bloody slicks in mere minutes.

"Answer me!" The Retributor Superior slammed her fist into the console before them, crushing one of the keys. The other humans in the room turned to them with worried faces.

Yes'ruch gasped, her voice uneven, "I have no answer for you, human. I… I am no tactician…" tears began to well in her eyes as she spoke. "I came to warn you but I do not know what more to tell you. The _Druchii_ can appear from anywhere, and their numbers are overwhelming."

"So what exactly are we supposed to do, xeno?!"

"I do not know," she put a hand to her temples, fighting back the flood of emotion. "Please, let us speak with the leader of these Eldar forces, they might have the insight you seek." She paused for a moment, "P-Please tell me you have not turned them away."

The Retributor Superior leaned back, "No, I ain't turned 'em away. Partly cause this invasion business has me right spooked, and partly cause… well, frankly I dun think I could even if I wanted with how much firepower they were packing, crazy bastards."

"Then please, let me speak with them. Surely they would not be here without a defensive plan."

The Retributor looked around, every Sister in the room was staring at her, waiting to see what would happen. "I ain't letting no xenos run rampant in my city," she insisted, and Yes'ruch opened her mouth to protest. "But…" she added, "providing yer willin' to go peaceable-like, I could see turnin' you over to 'em."

"You… could?"

The Retributor sneered, "You ain't no help to us no more, and I ain't gonna spare the food it takes to keep you locked up." She hefted her heavy bolter back into her grip, "Besides, I got enough problems defendin' the city without yet another Eldar prisoner clogging up my jail."

Excitement began to well inside her and Yes'ruch stood up from the console, "Then please, Retributor Superior, take me to them."

"Hold yer horses, I ain't done wi-"

"Sister Laura!" one of the armored women shouted, "There's an anomaly in the atmosphere over our position!"

The Retributor moved over to her display, pushing thick pauldrons of other humans to and fro with her strides."What in tarnation…" she said, squinting at the screen. "I ain't never seen storm clouds pop up like that before."

"They're growing rapidly," the restless human said. "It's like the storm is developing right over us!"

Yes'ruch gazed up at the sky, the clouds above leaden and grumbling with distant thunder. "By the…" she held her tongue as humans turned to look at her. With quivering lips she said, "They're here."


	8. A Request for my Readers

To anyone who follows my stories regularly, you may have noticed my writing has slowed over the last several months. With the recent and rather drastic changes in the Warhammer 40,000 lore, I have been extremely indecisive as to how I want to handle my plots going forward. The characters and stories I write are based on the narrative of my own armies, so they will likely stay the same. I genuinely enjoy writing these stories, but the new setting has essentially forced me to choose a path to take in regards to how I handle the background lore. The changes in the game's setting are massive to say the least, and whether or not I incorporate them will dictate large plot arcs of my fiction. This is different from my World of Warcraft fictions, where I wrote them after several expansions were released and specifically chose to have them take place in a slightly alternate timeline that is pre-Cataclysm. Originally I was writing my Warhammer 40,000 fiction from the perspective of them being "current", because the setting was more or less set in place. Now it is not, and I need help deciding what direction to take things:

Should I continue to write as if the events in the Gathering Storm never happened? I know a lot of people, myself included, have mixed feelings regarding the new lore and the events that took place during the Gathering Storm.

Should my setting be "a moment in time", essentially further back in the history of 40k without any current relevance? This would make it similar to my World of Warcraft fanfiction where everything essentially takes place within a specific time period, without any relevance in the current material.

Should I incorporate the new lore changes into my stories, and alter my story arcs to accommodate them? This would mean essentially hitting the reset button on the plot arcs in the middle of the story. It would require a drastic change to my stories and characters, but not one that I haven't already planned for.

Should I incorporate some of the new lore, but in an alternate timeline? 40k has always been about "how I heard it" and conflicting accounts of the same events, like in the Text-to-Speech universe, or the first Dawn of War. This would involve creating a new, different version of the Gathering Storm events.

I have different feelings about each of those options, so I figured I would ask for some input from the those who read the stories. If you have an opinion, please post a review on this entry or send me a PM.


	9. The Line of Duty

The carved ceramic tiles of the Syren's chambers wove together under the dim room light, stretching out to all corners of the floor. Their interlocking wedges were nearly seamless, giving the illusion the floor was an enormous slab of porcelain, delicately cracked with age into a sprawling mosaic of thorns and sinews. Kylendris stared at it through one open eye, the other pressed against the silken pillow beneath him. Red light swelled and receded across the entire room, radiating from the walls themselves. It slowly faded to purple and blue with gradual shifts in temperature, as though the room itself were breathing. Along the side, like a pumping vein, a footbath ran through a trough in the floor. Kylendris listened to its light trickling over the rasping of Chariath's respirator next to him.

He let out a sigh, nursing a fresh cut along his shoulderblade. Kylendris never particularly enjoyed his time in the Cult of Claws, but these past several weeks were beyond endurance. Chariath, for all her insistence that she was keeping him safe, was not a gentle lover. Her appetites, while not as extreme as he expected, and indeed perhaps even tame by Commorrite standards, were nearly insatiable. Every night, Kylendris found himself falling asleep bleeding and bruised, sometimes bound, sometimes poisoned, and never satisfied. Every morning he would wash the dried blood from his body and pray that today would be the day the raid would finally be announced, but every day it was business as usual. Escort the Succubus, suffer the Wyches taunting during the day, and endure the Syren's pleasures at night. Kylendris rolled over with a groan, too sick of it all to get out of bed.

Archon Salendrid's plans took longer than he expected, and in the weeks leading up to the raid nearly every Archon under his command offered troops or vessels into his service as tribute. The Cult of Claws naturally would be joining in force, as would the Coven of the Didactic Cave, their Haemonculi eager to see their flesh sculptures hunting against the Wyches of the arenas and the Kabalite murder packs. What was once a formidable raiding party had become nothing short of a lower city coalition army. Salendrid had welcomed these contributions with open arms, for while his stated goal was to do away with Erinyes Irons, what he truly wanted was to make an example. The more who saw the consequences for defying the Gypsy Road Kabal, the better.

There was a soft chime and Kylendris winced. The light in the room began to gradually rise into a soft pink. Morning had arrived, the dawn of the day of the long awaited raid. Kylendris sighed as he shuffled further underneath the blankets. Chariath rolled over in the bed until she lay on top of him, pinning him down. As usual, she was not gentle, and as her body pressed against the tender wounds inflicted the night before, Kylendris let out a hiss. With a sleepy moan she ran her fingers along his chest, tracing every fresh cut, "Good morning, Kyle."

"Good morning, my Syren," he replied quietly.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

He looked away from her, his eyes shifting back over the room. Much like the bedroom at the Gypsy Road tower, the walls were ornamented with many straps and hooks and instruments of torture, as well as blades of all varieties to satisfy whatever debased whim a Wych might have for their lover. Kylendris had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of those ornaments these past several weeks.

"Well?" she insisted.

"I did not, my Syren" he replied. "The coming raid has me nervous."

"Ha," she straddled his body, her hair flowing down to his face, "I love when you lie to me, Kyle, you are so bad at it." She stroked his face before taking his neck in her gasp, "It makes you all the more delectable."

"Please, my Syren, don't…" he said as her thumb began to press against his windpipe.

"Mm that's right, beg for me," Chariath said.

"I must… fly today…" he gurgled, his hand tugging on her wrist.

Without a word she released him and Kylendris swallowed hard with relief. There had been more than one night when the Syren's "affections" left him too wounded to even leave the bed. This was one point of the raid he looked forward to greatly, as once Erinyes Irons was dead, his loyalty would no longer be a point of contention. As such, he would no longer need to play courtesan to this sadistic Wych any longer. Kylendris wondered what he might do with his newfound freedom. With Lady Irons out of the picture, Salendrid taking over the lower city Kabals, and the Cult of Claws insisting on ever more debauched antics, he was at a loss. Perhaps, he thought, he could start his own Cult, or become freelance mercenary, or a Corsair.

Chariath pulled her respirator away and set it to the side, interrupting his train of thought. Leaning over him, she put her lips to his neck, just above the collarbone, and bit down. Slow, playful nips tasted his skin and drew only a little blood, just enough for her tongue to lap. Kylendris looked down to see her hips swaying from side to side, gradually lowering on top of his manhood stiffened by the morning. He allowed her to get settled, but as she reached to the nightstand beside him, his stomach turned. From it she drew a riding crop oiled with the same sticky venom as an agonizer. Before he could protest, Chariath raised the torture instrument and struck his thigh, sending a jolt of agony through his body.

Kylendris cried out in a spasm, bucking into the Syren's waiting hips. With a grin, she struck him again, and then again, the rhythm of the crop forcing him deeper into her.

Between yelps and whimpers of pain, Kylendris managed to plead, "My Syren, stop! Not today!"

"Come now, Kyle…" she said, her voice rasping as she struck him again, "I am being gentle this morning."

He winced with the blows, baring his teeth in pain, "No... I beg of you… I must-"

"Yes, that is right, grovel for your mistress," she gloated. Striking him once more, the pain shot up his leg and into his spine, forcing him to convulse into her. Pleased with herself, Chariath began to ride him like a proper mount, her blows getting faster as her legs wrapped around his hips for leverage. As he writhed beneath her hips, she drummed the side of his leg with her riding crop, the powerful toxins causing him to shudder hard with each tap. Her pointed nails dug into his chest as she leaned over him and she could feel the pain radiating from his heart. Grinning ear to ear, she wound up and struck behind her. The crop smacked him hard across the thigh with a sharp *CRACK*.

Kylendris screamed as his entire body surged with full blown agony. Before she even realized what happened, Chariath found herself being thrown from his lap, his hands gripping his leg as he huddled in the bedcovers. She sat up, her expression furious, but all Kyle could do was sink deeper into the fetal position. The warmth of his searing pain radiated off him, yet Chariath found herself taking no pleasure in it. She reached out to turn him over and his eyes shot hate-filled daggers, the venom of his emotions made more potent by his faint base psychic emanations. They were strong and nourishing, but bitter.

Her expression stern, she commanded him, "Kylendris, remove your hands."

"It burns..." he muttered through gritted teeth, still holding his wound.

Seeing as he would not cooperate she grabbed his arms, pulling them away with her brute strength. His leg was red and tender from the riding crop's venom, the skin blistered, but he was otherwise fine. "The damage is superficial," she said blankly.

"I told you…" he said, tears welling in his eyes from the relentless agony, "I told you I had to fly today."

She shook her head, "You can still fly."

"I cannot even walk!" he growled, slowly rolling over, taking care not to let his tortured skin so much as brush against the bedcovers.

"Kylendris, you are being childish," she said. "You have endured worse."

The young pilot carefully pulled himself to the edge of the bed. His eyes wet, he tried to find his flight suit by the nightstand beside him. "Yes…" he said, his arms flailing over the glossy floor. "I have… endured worse. But I am still forced to suffer your relentless, sickening passions every night." His fingers latched onto the garment and he pulled it up gingerly. With the utmost care he slowly began to slip it on, the fabric gripping his skin.

Chariath's eyes narrowed, "If you think you suffer at my hand, I could turn you over to my Bloodbrides. They would not be so gentle."

Kylendris shoved his arms into the sleeves, his frustration momentarily overpowering his pain, "At least they would do me the courtesy of finishing me off afterword."

The Syren leaped at him, forcing him into the bed. One hand clenched his neck while the other was raised in a fist. "Mind your tongue!"

"UGH!" Kylendris could not speak, partly for his windpipe being held in her death grip, and partly for the brutal pain that flared in his leg.

Chariath shoved him further into the mattress, "And learn gratitude. It was I, after all, who saved you from Salendrid's judgement in the arena."

Kylendris struggled beneath her powerful grasp, unable to respond. When she was sure her message got across, Chariath released her courtesan. Gasping and flailing in pain, she drank in his emotions as he desperately tried to ease himself. There was delicious pain, yes, but also the taste of hate. It was strong and vile, like the poison of a blade. She had developed a taste for it like all Commorrites, but in this particular instance it did not sit well. As Kylendris struggled to finish putting on his uniform, she donned her own Wych suit, watching the slight Eldar struggle. He winced as he pulled the suit taught, the skin-tight material grabbing at his injured leg. With every step he stifled a moan as he hobbled towards the door to the common area, one hand clenched around his thigh the entire time.

Something stirred in her, an emotion she had not felt in a long time. Although she could not put her finger on it, it felt wrong, as though it infringed on her own needs. She enjoyed his pain but did not like seeing him this way, and the two emotions struggled for control of her desires. Frowning underneath her mask, Chariath approached the door.

"Kylendris," she said, her tone unsure.

"Yes, mistress," he replied quietly.

She picked up the pilot's helmet sitting on a thin table by the door, "Are you able to fly?"

He looked down at his leg as though he could see through his own flight suit. "I do not know..."

Chariath handed him his helmet and ran her fingers through his hair. The young pilot froze, unsure what she was about to do to him, but her hand merely caressed down his face, around his ear, and under his chin. Holding his face in her palm, she said, "If you are not able, then stay and rest. I shall explain what happened to Lady Arataire if she questions your absence."

The pilot just stood there, unable to believe what he was hearing. His gaze was fixed by hers, and he was shocked to find no malice or amusement in her eyes. Absently, he took his helmet from her hand, "I… think I can fly…"

She placed her hand on his shoulder, "Then let us go."

"Wait," he said, pushing the helmet over his face. "Why, what are you…"

"What is it?"

"Why would you do that for me?"

Chariath pulled away, her eyes falling into their usual icy stare. "I cannot trust an unfit pilot in combat."

With that, she opened the door to the common room and shoved Kylendris through. This place, like the bedchambers, seemed to be part pleasure den and part gladiatorial pit. The Wyches of the Cult of Claws were already gathered, impatiently waiting for their mistress to lead them to their raiding vessels. Dozens of girls broken into their respective squads idly played with their blades or gossiped in whispers, with more than a few doing so just within earshot of him, so as to better thicken the scandal surrounding his mysterious relationship with their Syren. Chariath retrieved her trophy rack from a display on the wall and mounted it on her back plate, the skulls and spirit stones dangling like so many children's toys. She then pulled her lightning claws from the weapon locker. Electricity snapped from the blades as she clashed them together.

"My Wyches!" she bellowed over the comradery, "Today we hunt, not just for the glory of our patron, for for the honor of our Lady!"

Whoops and sneers came from the crowded room, clearly unimpressed with her call to arms.

"Erinyes Irons struck down our Succubus, and today we shall claim her soul in vengeance."

"Irons is just a gutter rat," one of the Wyches said. "I would rather get my claws into one of those delicious human females."

"Mm yes, the ones in the armor…" another said, drooling at the prospect of fresh meat.

"I bet they make the most precious squeaking noises as they die," the Wych added, choking herself in pantomime.

The other Wych eyed Kylendris cruelly, "I bet they do, although Chariath probably gets enough of that already. Am I right, Kyle?"

There was a crackle of electricity and a sudden pop as Chariath's lightning claws raked the offending Wych's body, severing her into pieces where she stood. As her smoking remains hit the floor of the common room, all commotion ceased. Kylendris watched as Chariath picked up the Wych's lifeless head and added it to her grizzly trophy rack.

"Let us move, the fleet awaits," she commanded.

Every Wych followed behind her, their weapons sheathed and their combat drugs at the ready. Swallowing hard, Kylendris hobbled along towards the rear of the pack, stepping over pieces of the dismembered Wych on the carpet. As the last Wych left the room, he looked back to see a gang of slaves scuttle inside, already cleaning the mess off the floor for their triumphant return.

Clouds roiled above, stretching into the horizon as the storm loomed down on El Valle. Sergeant Cole stood by the targeting computer of his Wyvern, nervously fidgeting with the console. The mobile artillery was set up in a defensive position on the cliff overlooking the city below, their firing arcs calculated to deliver their shells beyond the frontline troops. Down below, the perimeter was secured by tanks and entrenched infantry, the Sisters of Battle throwing their lot in with the 4063rd Regiment by digging in just outside the feeble city wall. Although his attention was called by the rapidly growing stormclouds, he couldn't help but turn a suspicious eye to the Eldar further down the ridgeline. They were allegedly fighting the same enemy, but Alex suspected he would be turning his guns on them when the immediate threat was dispatched. Victor had once again led them into their snare, and just like before, they were in the clutches of xenos. It just so happened that now involved the defense of an Imperial city. A strange coincidence, but the Eldar were known for their cruelty disguised as benevolence.

"Do you see anything?" Victor's voice crackled over the vox, pulling the Sergeant from his thoughts.

Alex looked to the sky again. Shapes were forming but they were dark and muddled and he couldn't make them out. "I think so," he replied, holding the voxcaster to his mouth.

"We're in position" Victor replied, "all vehicles, activate motion trackers and prepare to open fire!"

"Yes, sir!" he said. Turning over his shoulder he shouted, "Eyes sharp, lads! Cover that city, and watch your fire! This is danger close, those trenches are filled with friendlies!"

"What of the Eldar?" Alex's gunner asked under his breath.

The Sergeant sighed, "One foe at a time." He paused for a moment and added, "But if it happens, I didn't see it."

"Yes, Sergeant…" he said.

The clouds billowed down until they nearly touched the spires of the cathedral. There was no thunder, no lightning, no rain or wind, just an endless expanse of murky darkness. The shapes within began to take form as the gunners lined up their shots, steady hands carefully dialing in their trajectories. Sergeant Cole held his lasgun at the ready, its grip solid in his palm as he squinted through descending storm.

"Sergeant!" One of the crewmen leaped off his gunnery platform, lasgun shouldered. Several others did likewise as a bedraggled woman trudged up the side path along the cliff. Her clothing was torn and matted with sweat, and what appeared to have once been robes were now nothing but tattered rags. Her skin, where it wasn't scarred or bruised, was completely red with sunburn. She stopped as the line of Guardsmen took aim and Sergeant Cole assessed the situation.

"Is that a civilian?" one of the Guardsmen asked.

"I don't think so," Sergeant Cole said, looking closer. He could feel a pressure in his mind emanating from the woman. As damaged as she appeared, something told him she was no mere human.

"Do not shoot, please…" she said weakly. Her accent was strange and Cole recognized it immediately.

"Is that… I know you…" He pressed his way between the Guardsmen to get a better look, "You're the one from the tunnels."

She wobbled back and forth on unsteady legs. Her hair was clinging to her cheeks and what was left of her broken ear. Cole had never seen an Eldar before, at least not without their armor on, and while they did indeed look very humanlike, this one in particular was so pitiful it almost shamed him to think they were fighting such worthless creatures.

"You are… the Alex, yes?" she said with worry.

"That's Sergeant Cole, xeno," he said, raising his lasgun and stepping closer.

"Please, I am trying to reach the other side of the cliff," she said, her speech rapid.

The Sergeant grinned sadistically, "Bitch, you aren't going anywhere."

A lascannon shot rang out from the front lines and thunder cracked, echoing off the cliffside and the buildings below. All eyes looked up as the murky darkness revealed its secret. Like hailstones, purple ships careened towards the planet surface, their pointed hulls coated in an oily darkness that obscured their true form from sight. They scattered in all directions, some for the horizon, and some for the city center.

"Shit!" Cole shouted, running back to his Wyvern, "All units open fire!" The crewmen leapt for their stations, leaving the exhausted Eldar standing on the ridge. Mortars belched shots downrange as an echo of cannonfire reverberated off the stone behind them. Artillery shells battered the earth into a hot and dry mulch ahead of the city trenches and the flack of Hydras peppered the air. Those ships taken down spilled their crew into the city below them as the vehicles exploded on impact with the stone walls of the buildings. Battle cannons from the Leman Russ tanks guarding the city gates destroyed survivors who leapt from the wrecked hulls. Hundreds of ships spread in all directions across the sky as some reeled back, turning away from the pressure of the Imperial guns. Clearly the invaders never planned to be the ones being ambushed! Yet for all their firepower, the torrent of slick, purple raiders continued. The direct assault turned into a swirling mass of ships roaming above and around the entire city. A rain of crystal pellets raked across the artillery line and several of Cole's men cried out in terror as their skin peeled and burned from their flesh. Unnerved and helpless to assist his men, Alex ducked for cover behind the blast shield of his Wyvern. He recognized these pellets, he'd seen them in the caverns before.

"INCOMING!" One of the crewmen screamed. A handful of ships dove at their position, the sharpened spikes and blades stealing the lives of several members of their crew in the process. One of them smashed a Hydra to pieces with its reinforced shock prow, crushing the vehicle into the side of the cliff like an insect beneath a boot. As the ships lifted off again, dozens of shrieking fighters drove from their hulls. Blades flashed, pistols fired cloying poison, and all around the terrifying she-devils murdered with abandon the terrified soldiers.

"Get back in there!" Cole shouted to his men. Drawing his gun, the Sergeant planted a shot between the shoulderblades of one of the fighters as her back was turned. She fell to the ground but got up a moment later, her eyes crazed in spite of her wounds. The Guardsmen fired back, spraying shots from the hip as the fierce xenos dove inside hatches and plucked the men from their hiding places. One by one the gladiatrixes fell upon them until Cole found himself surrounded.

The Sergeant heard a shout behind him. An unearthly, chilling sound in a language he didn't understand. It was something of a cross between the choral chanting of a hundred Ecclesiarchs and the whispers he sometimes felt in the back of his mind. All he knew was that as soon as it began, all the ferocity of the Eldar fighters turned to dread. Electricity crackled overhead as if he was caught in a generator. Ducking inside his Wyvern, he looked back to see the Eldar witch with her arms outstretched, her entire body bristling with some arcane energy. With a long howl, almost a prayer, the swell of energy burst from her fingertips and lashed wildly across the cliffside in chain lightning. All the Eldar attacking them were struck down, some of their bodies torn apart by the surreal energy, but others merely dropped where they stood, as if their very souls were ripped from them.

As the last jolt of unnatural energy collapsed into the body of a xeno, Alex stood up. His men crawled from their hiding spaces or the clutches of the lifeless Eldar. What was once an artillery line on the battlefield was reduced to corpses and gawking soldiery. In spite of the cacophony of battle below, the cliffside seemed eerily silent as all eyes turned to the witch. She was on her knees gasping for air, and blood was pouring from her eyes and nose.

"What in the Emperor's name did you do?" Alex said slowly.

Without raising her face she said, "Forgive me… it has been some time... since I called upon the warp so strongly."

"The warp?! I've seen psykers in action, that was… unholy."

"Your practitioners know mere parlor tricks," she said, coughing into the dirt.

He took a step back, shaking his head, "You're an abomination."

She looked at him, blood pouring from her face, "You know, perhaps you are right."

Her eyebrows narrowed and she looked across the cliffside to the cathedral in the center of town. The trenches and armored emplacements of the front lines were beaten but holding, and the enemy forces resorted to sending their remaining grav-tanks over the walls. Some, more rounded and less menacing than the shadowy triremes that flooded the skies before, absorbed the bolters and flak that pummelled their black and bone hulls as they careened towards the city center.

A glittering storm of lasers raked the sky from the furthest point on the cliff, their shot patterns like that of a long range shotgun. Some beams cut straight through the strange new grav-craft, others peppered them into failure, their crews abandoning the wreck only moments before it crashed into a building or road in the city below. Each volley sent the attackers scattering like insects, particularly the open-topped raiding craft, and every wave forcing its way into the city suffered more and more damage. Swathes of iridescent nets spun over the swirling raiders surrounding the city, capturing them and sending their ships hurtling into dusty ground below. Those who fell overboard were torn to pieces as if cut with impossibly sharpened blades, the webs passing through their armor and flesh.

"No, no this cannot be! Kaira could be down there!" the Eldar shrieked as she watched the carnage in the skies.

"What did you say?" Alex asked, as the Eldar continued to ramble in her own xenos tongue.

"My friend-I have not time to explain!" she said, hoisting herself up in spite of her injuries. "I need to get back to the city."

The Sergeant looked back towards his men, then scowled, "Everyone, back to your stations! Lock in coordinates and get those guns firing again! We're gonna drive those bastards back where they came from!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" the crewmen shouted, although he could tell by their faces they were completely unnerved by what just occurred.

Alex had to admit, he was a little spooked himself. This Eldar, who was now hobbling down the side of the cliff and looked a mere inch from death, commanded a frightening power. Thinking back to the time he met her on the Inquisitorial ship, to how she overpowered him merely with a thought… The Sergeant's gaze slid to the dead Eldar littering the artillery line. This creature had saved their lives, now more than once. Whatever reason she had for keeping him alive, he needed to know. The Sergeant looked down the path beside the cliff as his gunners began to reposition their weapons. The Eldar staggered along the rocks on trembling feet, supporting herself where she could on the boulders lining the way. He frowned, it was one thing to be spared by the xenos, but for her to do so at her own peril, it stuck in his pride.

"Where are you headed now, xeno!?" he called out to her from the cliffside.

She looked back, her face streaked with blood from where she wiped it away, "To the city… to reach my friend… I must stop her..."

"You aren't gonna make it off this cliff let alone all the way down there."

The Eldar shot him a fierce glare, "You would dare... try to stop me again?"

"No, just the opposite," he said, looking over at his Wyvern, "but after this, we're even."


	10. Going Down in Flames

Clouds swirled around a formation of strike craft as Commorrite air wings monitored the battlefield below. Hidden by their nightshields and the natural cover, their jets' usual piercing cry lowered to a resonant howl as they swept back and forth, scanning the melee beneath them, waiting for the order to attack. Kylendris shifted painfully in the seat of his cockpit, his leg still inflamed from where Chariath struck him with the poisoned crop. He looked out the canopy, itching to get this mission over with. Nothing could be seen but clouds, though sensors clearly displayed a strong defensive line surrounding the city. The Gypsy Road expected this assault to be an easy one, why would the mon-keigh be guarding Archon Irons so fervently? And how did they know of their coming? Something was very strange about this entire operation. It should have raised a red flag when an Ulthwé Warlock came begging for assistance, but Kylendris was so distracted by his Syren's demands that it never had a chance to sink in.

"Claws air squadron," his Syren's voice came over the comms channel, "Biel-tan and mon-keigh artillery are positioned along the eastern cliff, your target is the support batteries. Engage with caution."

Kylendris swung his Razorwing Jetfighter towards the face of the cliff, peeling away from the other detachments while maintaining altitude and speed. The fighters in his wing behind him followed suit, as well as the Voidraven Bomber they escorted. The flesh on his leg stung with every movement as he worked the stabilizer pedals of the craft, taking the plane just above the cloud line. Although he couldn't see them out the canopy, the formation of artillery in the distance appeared on his screen. Target locks began to blink on his helmet, alerting him that his detachment was ready to strike.

"Claws air squadron, engage on my mark," Kylendris said, removing the heads up display to clear his vision. He watched the console as the batteries slowly came around, the cannons following their own radar as they readied a defensive volley. The targets came into weapons range and he thumbed the missile trigger, "Mark."

The Jetfighter's engine screeched to full throttle as Kylendris eased the flight stick forward, dropping him below the clouds and into view of the cliff. Sure enough he was flanked by lines of artillery, with Eldar lines deployed to the right and humans to the left, towards the city. He swung wide right, the g-forces from his turn forcing him back against his seat and causing his injured leg to flare with renewed pain. The flyer wing cruised within striking distance and the artillery replied with a salvo of fire. Kylendris held his position, knowing their chances of hitting him at this speed were slim, but a few of the Jetfighters behind him jinked away, losing their targets and launching their missiles uselessly into the cliffside. Leaving his strike until the last second, Kylendris unleashed his missile payload and pulled hard on the flight stick. Eldar crew threw themselves from the battery as his shatterfield missiles struck forth and crushed one of the offending batteries to shattered pieces.

The Voidraven bomber followed behind, its payload charged and ready. As it leveled to drop the void mine, a Falcon grav-tank fired its pulse lasers from the ridge, punching a hole in the rear of the craft with a snap-shot and taking two engines out. The bomber sagged and its bomb fell uselessly into the foot of the cliff as it struggled to pull itself back up into the clouds. Frustrated and sore, Kylendris activated his targeting display and readied his dark lances. Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, an explosion knocked him sideways. Craning his neck, Kylendris saw the human flak guns along the far cliff turned their attention from the Raiders and grav-tanks in the field to his own air wing. He steadied his plane and pulled up towards cover, the rest of his air wing following behind. High explosive shells burst all around them as the quad-guns tracked their movement. Pulling hard to the left, Kylendris tried to jink their attack, but the wide breadth of their peppering shots was too much to dodge.

A flak shell burst right next to the Jetfighter's wing, filling the mechanisms with shards of metal. Kylendris yanked on the flight stick and jammed the pedals, desperately trying to correct his roll as his Jetfighter spun away from the rest of his detachment. With the wing seized, he used reaction thrusters to pull himself straight, only for another flak shell to knock him the other way and into a spiral. Kylendris hit the reaction thrusters again, stopping the spin as the city below grew closer and closer. He gripped his flight stick for dear life, pulling back as the plane careened forward, the thrusters whining as they forced the nose slowly up. The g-forces forced him into the seat and his leg throbbed with agonizing pain as blood swelled around his wound. Kylendris grit his teeth, tears welling in his eyes as he spent the last ounces of his resolve. In a fit of pain and fear his leg cramped up, slipping off the stabilizer pedal and causing him to slam into the side of the cockpit.

The plane jolted downwards as he righted himself, now in a nose-dive into the broken city below. "Damn you, Chariath!" he growled, killing the throttle and slamming his fist into the eject button. The cockpit blasted free of the jet seconds before it impacted the city street. High in the air, Kylendris could feel the explosive heat of his prized Razorwing Jetfighter as it burned amongst the broken mon-keigh buildings. The ground came up beneath him and the cockpit's thrusters engaged, lowering him down safely. Cannons blaring and screams echoing all around, Kylendris undid his restraints and stumbled from the aircraft's cockpit towards the burning wreckage that was his plane. There was virtually nothing to salvage.

"Khaine damn that bitch," he said, oblivious to the war raging around him. "I told her, I TOLD HER I had to fly today!" Limping back to the cockpit, he reached inside, grabbing his splinter pistol and blade. Kylendris looked over his shoulder and saw the front lines beginning to fracture as the artillery was struck by a second wave of flyers. It would be only a matter of time before the rest of Archon Salendrid's forces stormed the city and claimed their prize. With a click his holster belt snapped onto his waist. He was a fool to stay with the Cult of Claws, and now their Syren's malevolent lusts cost him his favorite Jetfighter. Archon Irons' kabal may not have been glamourous but she never abused him that way.

Pushing himself off, Kylendris hobbled towards the large human fane in the center of town. He wasn't precisely sure Archon Irons was still being held there, but he knew the mon-keigh were dull and unimaginative so if they had a valuable prisoner during an invasion that is probably where she would be kept. Explosions buckled the paving beneath him, the Eldar artillery raining fire on the front lines once again. A stray concussive blast swelled at his back and he stumbled forward, groaning as he landed on his bad leg. Kylendris' face twisted with pain and resentment; he had to find Archon Irons before Salendrid.

He worked his way closer to the center of the city, dodging between the sunbaked structures, but as he neared, the streets became pure chaos. Downed Raiders and Venoms littered the ground, most having taken a wall or roof of a building out before embedding themselves in the rubble. Mon-keigh war machines too were strewn about. One had even battered right through the front gate of the fane, its treads scattered across the courtyard and mortar cannons mangled by a dismembered fallen shock prow. Kylendris caught the intermittent firefights of survivors from the wrecks, banded together in the buildings that were quickly descending into ruins, skulking from structure to structure, slaying what defenders they could as they went. With so many distractions, all Kylendris had to do was be patient and cautious, climbing under the wreckage of the broken ships, moving whenever a spat of gunfire distracted any searching mon-keigh weapon sights. In no time he slipped between the cracked and broken walls and into the courtyard.

Above his head, automated quad-guns pounded the skies and humans layered in armor manned heavy gunner emplacements that raked the surrounding buildings. Most of the courtyard was under the arc of such weapons but he wanted to remain undetected for as long as possible. With care he skulked along the ornate stonework where it met the foundation, looking for a point of entry. All the windows were covered with thick metal shutters, a trivial matter for any real weaponry, but for him they were far too thick to break through. There had to be another way inside.

A great crash came from the front of the building and Kylendris threw himself on the masonry, wincing as his damaged leg impacted cut marble. A trio of Ulthwé Falcon grav-tanks careened towards the city, their pulse lasers drilling against the main entrance's blast doors. The metal growled with each blow but did not budge. Neither, however, did the grav-tanks.

"Sweet agony, they're going to ram the doors!" he thought, panicked, huddling beneath a stone outcropping for what little cover it could provide. The Falcons leveled off with the ground and fired again, slamming the door with blasts from their main armaments and straining its hinges. With a final volley the door buckled and all three craft jammed their retro-thrusters. The hull of the flight leader smashed right into the door, breaking its hinges from the brickwork and sending the enormous slab of metal flying into the main hall.

Kylendris forced himself up and hurried to the breached doorway. Warm sensations overcame him as hapless would-be defenders inside screamed in terror. The door slowly crushing them, their collective power armors were able to suspend its weight for a few grizzly seconds before collapsing into pools of blood. Those that remained were gunned down by the coaxial shuriken catapults on the Falcons. As the main hall fell silent, the hatches on the Falcons began to open, and the unmistakable plumes of Dire Avengers emerged. This was his only chance, he had to get inside and find Archon Irons before those craftworlders claimed their prize for Salendrid. Drawing his pistol, Kylendris scurried over the broken stone and into the hall.

" _Movement inside,"_ one of them said. It was addressed to the squad but spoke in Kylendris' mind. None of the craftworlders realized he was attuned enough to the warp to hear them, and until that point, Kylendris wasn't even sure himself.

" _It is a Druchii vagabond, let him go,"_ another replied. _"His death cries will smoke out more defenders."_

"Yes, yes," he thought, turning down a hall, "let this poor misguided vagabond go. You just stay in the open hall and gun your way inside. Take all the time you need."

Female mon-keigh marched down from the upper levels, heavy weapons readied, and began to spray the grav-craft with explosive shells. The Dire Avengers immediately fell behind their Falcons' armored hulls and returned fire, their practiced shuriken volleys slicing the humans straight through. Kylendris hobbled as quickly as he could away from the firefight, ducking into a narrower corridor that led to a staircase. From below he could hear bickering and squawking coming from what sounded for all the world like another Eldar and a human. Sure enough, as he approached the top of the stairs, he found a human soldier working on a door control panel with what looked like the most pathetic craftworlder he'd ever seen in his life leaning helplessly against the wall. Her hair was matted and filthy, blood caked her nostrils, and even through his helmet he could tell she hadn't bathed in weeks.

"I told you," the human barked into the control panel, "I'm with the 4063rd, now let me in!"

The panel spat a burst of static before a female voice replied, "No can do, partner, this is lockdown protocols."

"We… are not alone…" the Eldar spoke weakly in the human tongue.

The mon-keigh turned around, weapon in hand, and sized Kylendris up. He responded in turn, drawing his pistol on the two.

"Is this friend or foe?" the human muttered.

The Eldar looked at him with a piercing gaze. It was a kind of look Kylendris had seen before, in the eyes of the Farseers back on Saim-hann. As humble as this Eldar appeared, Kylendris felt her spirit touch his own, and it was powerful beyond anything he had felt in a very long time. She scried his emotions and his spirit burned. A soul that had begun to wither in Commorragh, now compared to this Seer… the gulf between them was as immense as it was shameful. It had been so long since he used his spirit sight he did not know how to react, but as soon as she had begun, the Seer released him from her psychic grasp.

"This one is strange," she said, her face stiffening a bit despite her injuries. "He is no typical Commorrite."

A splash of melta raked the ceiling as the fighting in the main hall began to spread. Kylendris waved his pistol between the two strangers. "Typical enough," he said, "Now open that door."

"What is it you come here for?" she asked as her companion's eyes flicked between the two of them. "What would drive you to such ends as to take refuge in the Dark City, child of Saim-hann?"

A chill raced down Kylendris' spine and he adjusted his grip on the handle of his pistol, "Do not address me as such, wretch. And my business is none of yours."

"Your words and spirit are in discord."

The mon-keigh slammed his fist against the control panel. "I don't know what you two are saying but we _don't have time for this!"_

"Who in tarnation do you think you're talking to, Sergeant?!" the panel replied.

The Eldar craned her neck towards the panel and shouted, "Veteran Retributor Superior Laura del Roccos de la Celestine Lucia de Catherine Cipriano, if you do not open this door, I swear by whatever corpse you worship in this profane church that I will rend your spirit from your body and feed it to the creatures that snap at our heels. Now let us in!"

A pause fell between them, the sound of closing gunfire and the whizz of shurikens seemed impossibly distant as the panel spat static.

"…is that you, Sally?" came the response, far more timid than before.

"Don't… think she won't…" her companion grunted, "she's done it before."

A moment passed, then the control panel flashed green. The guillotine door rose into the ceiling and all at once, the three of them piled through, into the waiting sights of several dozen armed guards. Kylendris dropped his pistol and the human soldier did likewise with his crude firearm. The Seer merely stopped, half hunched over from sheer exhaustion. A formidable looking human female stepped forth, ammo belts and grenade bandoliers slung over the pauldrons of her armor.

"Sally, I just let you outta this here barracks," she said, her face etched with confusion, "Now yer beggin' to come back in. You part hound dog 'er somethin'?"

"Your perimeter is breached," the Seer replied weakly. "My kind… my friend, she approaches."

"I damn well know the perimeter is breached," she replied. "Fine friend you have that's out to skin us all alive, what the hell is she after?"

The Seer looked Kylendris dead in the eye as though he weren't even wearing his helmet. Swallowing hard, he brushed off what he knew of the human language, "They… come for your prisoners."

The large human sow curled her lip, "Those pieces of dry leather? Why?"

"Their fates are of great importance."

"You mean to tell me that all this is about a gaggle of prisoners?" She slammed the butt of her enormous gun into the floor, "I knew they was no good! All they been doin' is stinkin' up my jail cell and uttering blasphemy WHICH!" she said, pointing at the Seer, "you will pay penance for your little outburst."

Kylendris shook his head, "I will not let them fall into the hands of Salendrid."

"Salen-who?"

"Nevermind," Kylendris said. "Show me your prisoners. I shall take them away from here."

The human furrowed her dull brow and looked the three of them over. "Sally? What about you?"

"Let him take his damned prize," she said between shallow breaths. "I must stay here… try to talk reason… into Kaira."

The large human licked her lips and gave a slow nod. "Alright, Sally. You do your talkin' on the other side of that there blast door though." The Seer lowered her head and turned away, as if trying to accept the fate she set herself to. Her human companion looked back and forth between the intimidating female and the Seer, before slowly stepping forward.

"And you?" she said, looking at him with annoyance.

"I've played along this far," he replied. "Might as well see what it is that's getting us all killed."

With a flick of her finger, the towering mon-keigh beckoned the two of them forward. Kylendris stepped between the rows of armed guards, their faceless helmets tracking his own as he followed her down the hall. The door behind him slammed shut and he realized he was now trapped in this besieged mon-keigh fortress with several dozen armed and desperate foes.

After a couple more locked doors, Kylendris found himself in the mon-keigh prison. At the back of a row of cells, huddled in a corner, were the sad remains of soul-thirsted Eldar. He approached the cell that held them slowly, the heavy guns of the humans fixed on his back. None of the captives acknowledged his presence. Those that were sitting or laying on the floor looked as though they could scarcely breathe, a few weren't moving at all, and Erinyes Irons, or what was left of her, was chained to her cot, eyes and lips sewn shut. Their skin was haggard and dry, wounds festering from lack of care, and on Erinyes especially, dozens of scars and deep cuts carved litanies of the mon-keigh religion.

"What have you done to them?" Kylendris growled.

"Nothin' they didn't deserve," the creature replied.

He stepped aside, "Open the cell, I will take them away."

The large female mon-keigh looked over her shoulder. A handful of armored humans carrying flamers leveled their weapons by the doorway. "No funny business now," she said, placing her hand on the door panel.

With a clang the door opened and Kylendris stepped inside. Some of the Eldar within were dead, though from soul thirst or excessive tortures he wasn't sure. Stepping over their corpses, he approached the bed that held Erinyes. Her body was disgustingly thin and whatever skin wasn't cut had turned bone white, like a living skeleton. If she knew he was there she didn't show it. She just laid there, her breath slow and even, as if she was waiting patiently this entire time.

"Erinyes Irons? Can you hear me?" he said, as if to make sure this defiled creature was indeed who all this trouble was for.

She gave a slight nod, her shaved head tapping on the wooden cot.

"It is me, Kylendris." He slowly reached for his knife and heard the mon-keigh behind him tighten their grip on their weapons. "Salendrid has come for you, he wants to make you into an example! I must get you out of here… somehow." Carefully he slid the blade across the stitching of her eyelids, the frayed bits pulling away. "Are you able to move? What have these damnable creatures done to you?" He pulled the blade under the stitches crossing her dry and cracked lips. There was a pause as she winced, moving her jaw for the first time in gods knew how long. Her eyes creased open as though awaking from a long, deep sleep.

"Look at you, the tortures these beasts put you through, you must be soul-starved by now." He began cutting away at her restraints, "Please tell me you are still in there somewhere!"

She took a deep breath, her ribs expanding in a hideous fashion. Red lines splintered across her pale lips as she stretched them into a wide smirk.

"My Archon…" Kylendris said.

Erinyes ignored him, looking instead at the humans watching from the cell door. With broken teeth and a missing tongue she let out a ghastly chuckle, "Amateurs…"


	11. Dream of Mirrors

The thunder and fury of Eldar artillery cannons bellowed down from the clifftops onto the front lines of the sieging Commorrite formations. The Biel-Tan gunners, for all their resentment in taking part in this fight, put up a firm resistance against the pounding hordes of the Covenites and malicious gunboat strikes. Chariath held herself against the railing of her Raider, her strike force circling just outside of the range of their weapons. Steam seethed from her respirator and she gripped her lightning claws with anticipation. The raid was not going as planned, these mon-keigh were entrenched and she'd never known Biel-Tan Eldar to side with any alien. Something was wrong, and why Salendrid continued to press the assault she did not know. Nevertheless, her role was to break the enemy gunlines, and she would not be found wanting in the eyes of her mistress and patron.

A supersonic crack broke the sky above them as several jets dropped from the clouds, dashing straight at the offending cliffside. The Craftworld gunners reacted accordingly, shifting their aim and lighting up the skies to limited effect. Some of the Jetfighters jinked away, but their wing leader was undeterred and annihilated an artillery emplacement with his payload.

Chariath turned around, her Blood Brides were eager to slay, many already hanging over the edge of the Raider with blades in hand. Over the noise and destruction Chariath shouted, "Move out!"

The Raider jolted forward, its shock prow crackling with heat as it built up energy. Several Raiders and Venoms behind them fell into formation as a Voidraven Bomber overhead was struck by a Falcon's pulse laser. Its engines sputtering, the payload it carried dropped limply from its bomb bay and into the cliffside, removing an entire chunk of the planet from existence. The Raider lurched around and then down, jinking as the Craftworld guns leveled on their flight. One of the Venom craft behind them caught a bolt from a Vibro-cannon to the hull. Chariath saw it shake violently, the controls completely seizing, before it dove straight into the cliff face.

The Raider circled and the Guardian crewmen drew their arms. Shurikens flew through the air and met with a hail of disintegrators, splinter fire, and plasma grenades as the Wyches fell upon their prey. Chariath leapt from her vessel like a lioness and gored the nearest Craftworlder. His mesh armor did nothing to protect him from the power weapon and he fell before her, his torso almost completely severed. Chariath looked up as her Blood Brides slaked their thirst on the delicious agonies these Craftworlders bore. She felt their energies course through her veins and the intoxicating effect began to take hold. It was as delectable as it was familiar. Suddenly, for the briefest moment, a pall flew across her mind. It reminded her of Kylendris.

Screams reverberated off the cliffs, rising at once into an unholy wail that nearly drove her to her knees. Chariath clasped her ears with her oversized gauntlets as the sound grew closer and her Blood Brides cowered. A flurry of bone white and flowing, colored manes dashed to and fro, their ghostly forms cutting between the stationed war machines with a speed to match the finest of her Wyches. Sobering herself, Chariath resumed the fray, rushing forward to meet these new warriors.

A Blood Bride's corpse sunk to the ground, sliced cleanly in two by the power sword in the Howling Banshee's hand. The Blood Brides and Banshees clashed, their weapons and form dancing over the cliffside like a choreographed routine rather than a lethal battle, and had it been lesser combatants it would have indeed been a slaughter. Unpracticed Wyches might have been culled by trained Aspect Warriors, though Chariath's hand-picked Blood Brides would have cut down even them, but as her lightning claws crossed her opponent's blade, Chariath realized these were no ordinary Banshees.

With sweeping strikes, Chariath kept her opponent on the back foot, the Banshee parrying and dodging the steady blows until a lightning claw was caught by the graceful power sword and the Banshee struck back. Chariath had just enough time to wince as the Aspect Warrior knocked her upside the head with an armored fist and cut a claw's blade straight through with her power sword. Chariath backed off a moment, stunned, then regained her balance. The Banshee surged forward, her blade singing in the air as it wisped back and forth. Chariath blocked one, two, three blows, and then felt the warmth of powered metal graze her stomach. Crimson wept from her Wych suit as the blade skirted under her defenses. Grasping her wound, Chariath looked up and saw her opponent raising her weapon.

Instinctively, she threw her claws up in defense and another prong broke from her trophy weapons as the power sword crackled against her, the claws' primitive human design no match for Eldar craftsmanship. Striking out with what remained of her weapons, she desperately tried to stab at the elusive Craftworlder, but the Banshee was as nimble as she was lethal. Every blow seemed to float across her armor, grazing it but never landing firm. At last the Banshee stopped her assault cold, kneeing her in the chest and grabbing her throat. Chariath coughed and grinned, grabbing her opponent's as well. Realizing her mistake, the Banshee struggled to tighten her grip, but Chariath's towering stature and great strength were more than a match for her agility now. Clenching the Aspect Warrior's throat, Chariath threw the Banshee through the air and slammed her into the dirt, crushing her body against the hard stone. The Aspect Warrior pulled at her hand for dear life, armored fingers gripping her wrist in terror. Chariath smiled, feeling of the Aspect Warrior's desperation seething into her spirit. But then she began to feel something else caressing her mind. The Howling Banshee's mask slowly drew her gaze, and then…

A shriek overwhelmed her senses and blasted through her consciousness. Chariath fell to the ground, her ears and eyes bleeding as the reverberations of the Banshee's wail pounded in her temples. She waited for the killing blow, her senses were throbbing and it took all her strength to pull herself to her knees. As she wiped the blood from her eyes however, she found herself sitting on the ground, surrounded by what was left of her Blood Brides. The Aspect Warriors had stepped back, now encircling a Dire-crested commander.

"What… is this?" Chariath shouted, unable to hear herself for the ringing in her ears.

The commander spoke in her mind, "So this is the best the Cult of Claws has to offer? Considering the prestige of your patron Kabal I expected a bit more… guts."

Chariath said nothing, her head was still woozy and she fought to keep her vision clear.

"Perhaps the Dark City is growing softer for riffraff like yourself to be making such great strides. Back in my day your kind would be lucky to be scraping by as dregs and street gangs, but then, the same could be said of the Craftworlds."

"Who are you?" she spat.

He stepped forward and the Aspect Warriors moved with him as one, "My name is Sir Allison Concord, Autarch of the 1st Biel-Tan Armored Division. And you, Syren, are my prisoner."

"Prisoner?" she choked. Those of her Blood Brides that remained look at her with indignation and terror. Being taken prisoner in Commorragh was well known to be a fate worse than death.

"Of course," Sir Allison said, his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed power sword. "There is no reason to protract this senseless loss of life."

"We… I shall not be taken… by anyone…" Chariath replied, forcing herself upright.

"Well you are in no position to argue," Sir Allison said frankly.

A menacing growl escaped her respirator as she took a trembling step forward, "Your pretty armor… will adorn my mistress's throne…"

Instantly the Howling Banshees moved to block her path, blades at the ready, but Sir Allison raised his hand dismissively. "Ah, the eternal Commorrite hubris." He motioned over his shoulder, "Shadowseer, are these ruffians really as you say?"

Chariath stood motionless as a silken figure glided before her. She had seen the Harlequins perform from afar in the grander arenas of the city but never in person, and even to her addled senses she could tell this was no ordinary member of their fraternity. Strangely, she could only wince when she looked directly at its mask, and every move the Harlequin made seemed to radiate a pervasive fluidity that even the greatest of her Wyches could not match.

"They are indeed," he said, a dozen voices coalescing in her mind from all around. Her Blood Brides seemed to hear it too as they staggered closer to her, weapons clenched, willing to fight but as unsure as their mistress.

"Very well then," Sir Allison said. "Lay down your weapons, Syren, and we shall show you quarter."

Chariath grit her teeth, "The only thing we shall lay down is your corpse, Autarch."

"That decision is rather unwise," the Shadowseer interjected, softly moving between them.

"You would stop me? Then your life is forfeit as well."

A mist began to descend upon the clifftop. All around her, time seemed to slow, as if reality itself were muffled by the serene air. Even the Blood Brides at her side disappeared into the fog, ceasing to exist the moment she turned away.

The Harlequin drew his staff, "I would stop you, Chariath. You have a part to play on this stage too important to be throwing your life away on such senselessness."

"Your tricks do not scare me, Harlequin."

"Nor would I expect them to," he said, his lilting voice growing more somber. "Sir Allison is offering you a chance to end this peacefully, and you have every reason to take it."

Chariath bared what remained of her lightning claws, "I would sooner die than kneel before my foe."

The Harlequin cocked his head slightly, readying his staff, "That is your decision."

Chariath dashed at the Shadowseer, swinging her claws wide but never so much as grazing his impeccable form. With every lunge and strike the Harlequin seemed to simply stand aside as though waiting for her to move. She dove back and forth, chasing the damnable Harlequin to and fro before realizing she was virtually running after him, his body encompassed in fragments of checkered light.

"Fight me, coward!" she screamed.

The Harlequin laughed that iconic, condescending laugh, "Oh, you are going to have to try harder than that I'm afraid."

"You dare taunt me!?"

"My dear," he lifted a crooked hand to his swirling mask where a mouth might be, "The short-sighted antics of your kind leave me no room for any additional mockery."

Chariath took a deep breath through her respirator and felt a warm sensation flood her spine. The array of vials on her back surged into her body and she felt her senses align. The warped reality the Harlequin summoned seemed to twist and distort as the Splintermind took hold. Muscles swelled and released, her eyes twitched, her heart jumped to her throat.

The Shadowseer straightened up a bit, "Impressive, most impressive. Almost seems as if you were…" his hand raised to his chest, "compensating for something?"

With a feral scream, Chariath attacked. The Harlequin danced away but this time she was able to match his speed, her strikes slipping in between his limbs as he tried to distance himself from the maddened Syren. Reeling back, he struck her with his Miststave, the psychic energy of the weapon knocking Chariath clean off her feet, but as soon as she landed she was in pursuit once more.

"Now _this_ is the warrior I knew was in there!" he cried, deflecting her claws as she loped after him.

Chariath dove at the clown, and as he flipped backwards, she spun back and prepared for the landing. The moment his leg touched earth she swept it and landed a firm blow with her fist into his side. The Harlequin rolled on the ground to the edge of the cliff and she pounced on top of him, her respirator seething steam as her labored breath fought to keep her tortured body at maximum.

"Very… good…" he said as her hands gripped around his collarbones. Then he spoke in her mind, "But I am afraid our dance ends here."

Chariath felt a kick in her mind and she fell off the Shadowseer. At once he wrapped his staff across her neck and pinned her to his lap, looking out over the cliff. Though she was stronger by far, the leverage he had over her already damaged windpipe was more than enough to ensure she didn't budge.

"You… unhand me! Fight me!" she insisted, pushing against the staff for her life.

"And spoil this lovely view? Why? Look at how the burning wreckage plays across the streets in the city," he said, motioning towards the scene below. The fog cleared around the city streets beneath them where she saw the burned out husks of numerous Eldar, Commorrite, and human vehicles littering the ground. Among them was the unmistakable scrap of a familiar Razorwing Jetfighter.

"No…" she muttered, ceasing her drug-addled fits for a moment.

"Captivating, is it not?"

"Kylendris!" She struggled again against the Harlequin's staff, and this time he let her go. Chariath crawled to the edge of the cliff, her raspy voice beginning to break even more.

"Hmm? Who is that?" the Harlequin asked, amused.

"…I should have kept him grounded."

"Do not tell me you… _care_ … about this Kylendris, Chariath."

"Be silent!" she spat, turning to face the Harlequin again.

"It truly is for the best," the Harlequin said. "After all, most genuine affections tend to be lethal in Commorragh." He gave a sarcastic shrug, "At least you know who is actually responsible for killing him."

"ENOUGH!" she swung madly at the giggling Harlequin.

He pranced out of the way, "Unlike last time, when you let your Succubus die!"

Chariath charged towards him but he leapt away in a flurry of colored checkers. "Then you teamed up with the one who actually killed her to dethrone your Cults' best patron!"

She threw another strike and the Harlequin retaliated with his staff, sending her bouncing off the hard rock of the cliff.

"And now here you are, hunting down Erinyes Irons." With the end of his staff stuck against her throat he lowered his cowled head, "It seems everyone you serve or try to protect ends up the same way, Chariath. Betrayed or dead."

The Syren grunted in response, trying frantically to pull the staff from her throat but it hung in the Harlequin's grip like iron.

"It is as if…" He flicked his Miststave up, sheering her respirator from her face, before jamming the end of it into her sunken scar, "…there is a hole you cannot fill."

Chariath doubled over, the pain cutting through the combat drugs as she heaved, desperate to catch her breath.

"Listen to me closely, Chariath." The Shadowseer leaned over her, his mask nearly touching her face. "You reap all that you sow. You yet have a part to play in this grand orchestration, but longer you cling to the hate and misery of your kind, the closer you come to being no different than the shriveled husk you were sent here to retrieve."

Gripping the edge of his staff for dear life, she could not help looking into the Harlequin's mask in front of her. What was previously a shifting mass of hated and terrifying faces now showed only one. Her own withered visage, as clear as the clearest mirror, stared back at her with worn, lonesome eyes. It was not the youthful reflection of her physical self, but the haggard and frail form of her spirit. In that moment, in that scared and pining face, she felt the weight of her own hatred, anger, every vile and contemptuous whim that passed across her mind leveled squarely at herself.

"Be gone from me, Harlequin," she muttered through short, gasping breaths.

He shook his head, "There is far more yet for us to do."

"Take this vision from me!" She shut her burning eyes, "I can endure it no more!"

The Harlequin released Chariath and she slumped forward, holding her scar as she gasped for air. The fog began to clear around her and she found herself standing beside the cliff, her body aching and throbbing from the violence and drugs. Her Blood Brides stood limp, mouths agape at what they had seen, while the Autarch simply grunted.

"Impressive, Carlin," Sir Allison said, "Most cannot defeat a Syren in one deft strike."

"Oh, it was not as easy as I made it look," the Shadowseer humbly replied.

"I am sure," he added knowingly. Turning to Chariath he spoke, "Now, Syren, lay down your weapons."

Chariath looked at him, and then back over to her Blood Brides. It appeared none of them saw or heard most of the battle that transpired. She cast one last glance at the clown and saw the shimmer of her eyes in his mask. Then, slowly, she dropped her broken lightning claws.

"My Syren, what are you doing!?" one of her Blood Brides cried out.

"What I must," she replied, placing her respirator back on her face. "The Shadowseer has bested me."

One of the Blood Brides ran forward, eyes wild with rage. "How dare you?!" she shrieked. "You shame our Cult, Chariath! You are a disgrace!" She drew her knives and eyed the Howling Banshees gathering tighter around the Autarch. "We shall stop only when the last of your flesh is flensed from your bones!"

"You shall do no such thing," Chariath replied.

Another of her Wyches stepped forward, "But, mistress—"

"They will kill you like dogs," she said, standing before the remnants of her squad. "Salendrid brought us here for a parade, to proclaim the power of his own Kabal, and what do we find? A prepared and entrenched foe, mon-keigh reinforcements," she gestured to the artillery cannons across the cliffside, "An entire division of Craftworlders waiting to ambush us."

"What are you suggesting, Chariath?" the upstart Blood Bride spoke, her tone suspicious and pointed.

"Salendrid has either underestimated this raid, or we are being culled for his benefit. Either way I will not lose my best Wyches for his bravado."

The Blood Bride snickered, "You doubt the strategic prowess of Lord Salendrid?"

"I doubt many things about Salendrid, but not his ambition, nor the lengths he will take to slake his thirst and secure his power."

"Very well, Chariath," she cooed. Fixing the Syren's gaze, she held her weapons at arms length before dropping her blades and pistol. "We shall see if your suspicions are right. But if not, Lord Salendrid will hear of your betrayal."

The rest of the Blood Brides followed suit, their weapons clattering to the stony ground. Chariath turned to the Autarch, "You have your prisoners, Craftworlder."

"A prudent choice," he said. "And one I did not expect." The Howling Banshees moved forward, corralling the Wyches and gesturing with their blades to move. Reluctantly, Chariath and her Blood Brides complied.

"If I may, Sir Allison," the Harlequin said, stepping beside the indignant column of Wyches, "Allow me to relieve you of the Syren."

The Autarch rolled his shoulders, "Do you wish to teach her another lesson, Carlin? She is unarmed now, there is no honor in that."

"A lesson, yes, but not of that nature," he replied. "I have business of my own."

Sir Allison nodded, his crest lowering over his helmed brow, "Very well, she is in your custody, Harlequin."

Chariath stopped as her Blood Brides were taken away, led back with provoking jabs beyond the cliffside to the main forces of the Biel-Tan division. Left alone with only the Shadowseer, Chariath watched the battle continuing below, trying to avoid looking into the clown's mask again.

"What will you have me do?" she asked, her eyes drawn to the carnage taking place at the city gates.

The Harlequin stepped next to her, "As I told Sir Allison, you have more to learn."

"To what end, Harlequin?" she asked. "What interest do you have in me?"

"The Laughing God smiles upon this day," he said with a profound voice. "This is his theatre and what a lovely turn of events it has brought! And you!" he said, pointing his finger in her face, "You have taken your first, trembling step towards understanding your true self!"

Chariath scoffed, the steam venting from her respirator to wreath her face. "True self indeed."

The two Eldar turned as a loud crash echoed up from the Cathedral below. Three Ulthwé Falcons, guns blazing, plowed into the blast door barring the front of the structure, caving it in.

"Ah, the stage is set but the players are not all in place," the Shadowseer said. "Quickly, follow me!"

The Harlequin pranced down the cliffside towards the city below. Chariath followed, barely able to keep up with the clown's precise and nimble strides.

"Where are we going!?" she shouted from behind.

Without breaking his stride, the Shadowseer twirled his hand before them, "To the climax!"


End file.
